


Simonville Story

by TokyoDarjeeling



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Shimotsuma Monogatari | Kamikaze Girls - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - High School, Cis swapped minor characters, Friends to Lovers, Girl Gangs, Iowa, Kamikaze Girls, Kamikaze Girls AU, M/M, Midwest, Racebending, Shimotsuma Monogatari, Unwilling friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 80,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokyoDarjeeling/pseuds/TokyoDarjeeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An aspiring artist dropped in rural Iowa, the wannabe biker that antagonises him with his friendship, and the unbearable stupidity that follows. Set in a milieu of infinite cornfields, detailing the Midwestern high school experience and pathetic (almost) all girl gangs wth a featured cast of highly illogical youths. </p><p>This, esteemed reader, is a story of Simonville, Iowa, population 1, 207.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Nevadan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Earthsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earthsong/gifts), [color](https://archiveofourown.org/users/color/gifts).



> This is an AU of [Kamikaze Girls/Shimotsuma Monogatari](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/759772.Kamikaze_Girls?from_search=true), based on the [novel](https://www.amazon.com/Kamikaze-Girls-Novala-Takemoto/dp/1421513951/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1468100954&sr=8-2&keywords=kamikaze+girls) by Novala Takemoto (translated by Akemi Wegmüller), and the [film adaptation](https://www.amazon.com/Kamikaze-Girls-Blu-ray/dp/B002VLGFSC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1468100954&sr=8-1&keywords=kamikaze+girls) written and directed by Tetsuya Nakashima.
> 
> Which then spiraled totally out of control, and turned even stranger by all the research on the Midwest I did for it. Many quotes have been paraphrased and borrowed straight from the source work, don't hesitate to ask if you're curious of a certain passage! I highly recommend Kamikaze Girls, and hope I have done it justice at least in terms of craziness. The whole idea came about thanks to Hanna (color) and Sofia (Earthsong), they have brainstormed and beta-read all the way, and generally put up with me. Couldn't have done it without you guys! <3

_“And then you begin to give up the_ very idea _of belonging. Suddenly this thing, this_ belonging _, it seems like some long, dirty lie… and I begin to believe that birthplaces are accidents, that everything is an_ accident _. But if you believe that, where do you go? What do you do? What does anything matter?"_

– **_White Teeth_ ** **, Zadie Smith**

 

The motif: a country asphalt road, dividing the landscape in two. Green and golden cornfields, a cerulean sky. The subject: a bespectacled black teenage boy small in stature, racing down this road on a pink scooter with apparent difficulty but strong determination. If he was less challenged with vehicles then maybe he would have noticed the pick-up truck approaching at the crossroads ahead of him sooner, and if he had been less determined to reach his destination then maybe he would not have been stupid enough to try and pass it without stopping. Action! There is impact, and the boy flies through the air because he really does weigh too little for his age. As he soars above the truck a voice-over lets us share his final line of thought: _Farewell, mom. Farewell, Grandma Fury. Farewell, Sergeant Floyd Monument. Farewell, Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207. Farewell, Sir Erskine, farewell… Farewell, James Buchanan Barnes, who for some reason I seem to be stuck with all the time_. As the boy obviously falls to his death, the montage we are subjected to, a metaphor surely for life’s fickleness, is of a handful of quarters hitting the asphalt in slow motion. The image freezes and the word “Fin.” appears on the middle of the screen written in Helvetica.

 

But this video installation would not make enough sense to be enjoyed properly if we didn’t rewind the story a bit. And besides, it wasn’t the Fin of anything really, apart from a very odd prologue.

 

A true artist must nurture an aesthetic spirit and live an aesthetic lifestyle. Aesthetics, originally from the Greek _aisthētikos_ , is sometimes translated as “sense perception” but more precisely means "perceptive, sensitive, sentient," while indeed being derived from _aisthanomai_ which does mean “to perceive, to feel.” It came into the English language via German ( _Æsthetik/Ästhetik_ ) where it was given a new meaning by various philosophers and while I could go deeper into that, I have a feeling it would be more educational and beneficial to all parties if they individually searched the term on Wikipedia. (God knows that’s what I had to do, but that’s the American education system for you.)

 

To live by such an aesthetic as one does when trying to live by the unwavering, absolute personal policy that being an artist entails, is typically defined by the average American as being “weird.” Or “losery” (although of course, not a real adjective), and generally frowned upon. I still do it, but mostly to prove to myself that I have pledged myself fully to the arts. Artistry is in all fairness not achieved by proving yourself to others. If I didn’t devote myself so thoroughly to the arts and instead made serious efforts to be “likeable” and “adapting to my current environment,” I’d “make friends” (who weren’t dead and/or inanimate) and be “popular with girls” … is what people tell me, and the more they say that, the more it fans the flames of my aesthetic passion and stiffens my resolve to be a great artist through and through. It also helps that what they’re saying is 100% untrue. All great artists waver in their convictions from time to time, and I freely admit to have _tried_ to be those things that I’m not and, well. I was about as successful as Kafka was during his lifetime.

 

So anyway, artophile that I am, I have been studying drawing ever since elementary school. Before that, I loved coloring books and scribbled on anything that wasn’t wallpaper or otherwise Strictly Off Limits but it wasn’t until I got a proper art teacher in middle school who taught actual techniques and art styles that I made my mind up: I was going to become an artist. It did not matter if it meant I had to stay alone and friendless because of it, or if I couldn’t support myself doing it (which artists could?) because that was sort of the point: artists were misfits and I was a misfit. A match made in heaven, clearly.

 

Landscapes quickly became my favorite thing to depict, whether through drawing or painting or anything else. When I imagine the stormy seas Caspar David Friedrich managed to capture, threatening to swallow up the distant yet awe inspiring mountains, I fully understand why the style is known as “Romantic.” A landscape like that is nothing but not love. A different time and continent it may be in which I live, but those are the kind of lovely landscapes I wish to put to paper too. In a fair world, in a country home to several natural wonders, I should to be able to descend on a cliff like that, or a vast water lily garden, or a great starry sky, art supplies in hand and carry out an attempt at similar greatness. However. Ah, however. Why does reality have to be so harsh, and hard to love? With said art supplies in my backpack, and a mind full of ideas intent on meeting the proper subject to paint, I walk along the edge of the road from my house to the town center, but no matter how far I follow that road, I just can’t get into an artistic mood.

 

For this is Simonville, Iowa, population 1, 207. Trying to view this wholesome American heartland as a dramatic landscape suited for watercolor paintings is quite simply preposterous. And to depict it that way? Utterly, utterly unattainable. The road that leads to Simonville town is indeed surrounded by fields in every direction, but it’s a cracked asphalt road where only tractors and pickup trucks occasionally pass by. There is nothing picturesque about it. In order to call it “pastoral,” I would have to acquire far greater rhetoric skills than I possess at the moment, but rather than pastures, the fields are plain old cornfields. These spread past the horizon, and I can remove my glasses and blurry my vision all I want; they will never resemble the a deep canyon or grass clad valley. What I look upon is not a natural wonder, it is an agricultural industry that produces 40% of the world crop. I can walk and walk and it’s just cornfields. Everywhere I turn, cornfields. In every direction, cornfields. Every corner of the world appears to be: cornfields. Ugh, it’s frankly disorienting: cornfields, cornfields, cornfields, cornfields. And then more cornfields, cornfields, cornfields, cornfields. High mountains or low valleys? No. Flat cornfields. Past, present and future, cornfields. All of creation, just cornfields. There are a few soy fields, actually, but those are mostly rotating crops. Let me catch my breath for a second and get my inhaler. This must sound repetitious to you, dear reader, but bear with me as I have to bear with it in my everyday life: cornfields, cornfields, cornfields, cornfields, cornfields, cornfields, cornfields, cornfields – I’m faintly hoping they’ll turn into savvy metal shields, or Andrew Garfields, or literally anything _but_ cornfields, but this artist cannot catch a break. I can’t overstate it: this place is just endlessly, mindlessly, senselessly, hopelessly, boundlessly surrounded by cornfields and that is all there is to it.

 

When I walk along these cornfields, aimlessly and desperately, some old redneck will pull over his hideous truck and ask, “Did your car break down, sonny?” And then, every time, I am forced to explain that no, my car did not break down. Taking a walk might be a completely normal activity in most parts of the world, but it is not customary among the Midwest cornfields one bit.

 

Simonville, this country town where I have come to live, is so rural it that the shock at first made me want to faint (and that is usually the last thing I want). You simply can’t get anywhere worthwhile from here without attempting a transcontinental runaway. When it was first decided we were moving to Iowa, I was fairly optimistic. The reason for this is that, until then, I was living in Reno, Nevada. Or in Sparks, Nevada. Whichever city decided they had jurisdiction over our block that week. It’s an urban area for sure, but a desert urban area nonetheless. And, besides trying to trick you with supposed tales of “desert roses” and other natural wonders that you can find nowhere else in the otherwise _alive_ part of the world, it’s filled with the kind of people who find deserts nice and cozy. Covering quite a population, I’m not at liberty to judge all inhabitants of the Reno-Sparks area but I am anyway taking that liberty with the citizens of my birthplace neighborhood, which for my own private reasons, shall remain unnamed. As earlier stated, located on the border between The Biggest Little City in the World and the City of Promise, this was not, despite what the Sparks city council tried to tell us, a place where “it” was happening. The population has a surprisingly high number of wannabe gangsters, general delinquents and low level mob families. The streets are filled with tacky pool halls, pawnshops and bonds man’s offices, cheap diners and shops for pirated goods, as well as, of course, gambling places not really deserving to the title “casinos.” Most people frequenting these establishments are dressed in tracksuits all year round. This is entirely normal. People born there grow up, get married, have children, and die wearing tracksuits, a truly American bastardised version of the welfare state, I guess. It of course also includes children and school kids, teenagers and other pleasant creatures of my own age. I am not, and have never been, a follower of this tracksuit code, both as a matter of personal taste but also due to the fact that the Reno/Sparks Goodwill shops carry surprisingly few tracksuits, at least not in my size. All the better though, because what poor kid wants to give off the impression that they’re something they’re not, right?

 

Besides being, not for artistic reasons I can assure you, poor, I have also my whole life been rather scrawny. I’m small for my age, always have been, and also what they would call “sickly.” Asthma, often down with flus and colds, generally “weak” so to speak. Not seriously ill like my mom, and improving with age, but once a scrawny kid out of tracksuits, always a scrawny kid out of tracksuits, for now and for always constantly followed by and dodging the youth branch of the Tracksuit Mafia present at my school. So when I heard we were packing up and moving in with my grandmother for reasons concerning rising healthcare costs and inappropriate desert climate (the desert just wasn’t built for people like me and mom), I got momentarily excited because it would mean I would leave all this behind. Goodbye tracksuits! I was also very fond of my grandmother, who I had always had a great relationship with even though she lived so far away. And Iowa, that was right next to Illinois! I could go into Chicago sometimes, maybe, not to mention the proximity to the Great Lakes. Now that is something I could work with, landscape painting-wise.

 

But then I got to Simonville, and it was cornfields, cornfields, cornfields: complete and total boondocks. So near, and yet so far. This might have something to do with me being away sick most of the school year when we covered American geography, then again with the American education system being what it is, one never knows but: upon arrival it became clear to me that Chicago, Illinois, and the Great Lakes were far enough away to be figments of my imagination. Even getting as far Des Moines, capital of Iowa, demanded you devote your entire day to the journey. When I was made privy to this fact of total isolation, I suffered a slight attack of dizziness that made me take out my inhaler before I realized what was really wrong. If I was going to be stuck here, living in tracksuit land of Reno/Sparks was (Minerva forgive me!) a thousand times more convenient. Walking from our house to the town center of Simonville and its small bus station, takes fifty minutes at the least, forty if you race walk and this in-house asthmatic was not prone to race walking. Nor was he, as you should have figured out by now, prone to driving, due to a lack of motor vehicles and driver’s license, which in turn was due to a lack of funds for this very purpose. Also I wasn’t very good with handling moving objects that weren’t my own body, and even there you could say I was failing, so. Of course, everybody else in Simonville has these things, and the few who don’t have at least a motorbike (or a tractor, because apparently that works too). Grandma Fury got around by the offered car services of her neighbors the Hills eldest daughter Maria, who even though a perfectly good driver I’m sure, I was not keen on using for the same purpose. The options left to me therefore, were slim and limited to riding a bicycle and walking.

 

The insufficient funds that had been unable to procure me a driver’s license class for my 16th birthday had also been unable to procure me a bicycle for my 6th. I had, in an against-all-odds situation, somehow learned how to ride a bike from a friendly neighborhood dad who had shortly after disappeared from town mysteriously (I blame the older Tracksuit Mafia). I wasn’t very good at it to begin with, and lacked all opportunity to keep it up, which is why when now, age almost 17, upon being offered a rusty old thing from my grandmother’s garage, I very much doubted the accepted truth of “you never forget how to ride a bicycle.” Turns out, I had not forgotten how bad I was at it, and was equally if not more so now. I smiled and thanked Grandma, but swore to only use the bike in absolute emergencies. And let me confirm, attentive reader, that there were not many of those in Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207.

 

Desert landscapes, though rather unappealing to me at this stage, still offer their fair share of opportunities for artistic interpretation in a way that cornfields galore do not. Withdrawing within the city borders to draw, or hiding from behind diner booths, I could quite easily find something or someone to sketch in Tracksuit Town. Within a week in Simonville, I had drawn everything I could think worthy of depiction. Thanks to this move, a dark curtain had abruptly been thrown over the blossoming spring of my artistic career. No one was to blame really. My family, that is to say just me and mom since dad passed away when I was a toddler, had struggled financially my whole life and on top of that, while I was just sickly, my mom was actually sick and needed quite the amount of ever more expensive medications to handle her fibromyalgia. And no matter how many newspaper rounds I was making (on foot) or other menial jobs either of us managed to score, the costs of living were rising too rapidly for us to keep up with. Eventually, mom decided to take her own mom up on the offer to come live with her, home in Iowa. My mom had been an only child and her son had turned out the same. Grandma Fury was a second parent to me, and made the trip to see her Renoite family far too often to be really worth it in my opinion, but that’s Grandma I guess. The only retired old black lady for miles, with a meticulously kept afro and tortoise shell glasses improving the vision of her one eye (the other covered by a leather patch), some people were (un)surprisingly _puzzled_ at this unorthodox version of an Iowa corn farmer. Would they be more or less puzzled when her equally black daughter and grandson moved in with her, I wonder?

 

Grandma Fury’s house was much larger and in better shape than our previous apartment, so that was certainly an improvement. It also had a large shed, in a larger garden, in which she grew her own vegetables. It was surrounded on all sides by, you guessed it, cornfields. Grandma owned almost all of them, but rented them to the closest neighbors, the Hills, to farm, thus earning enough revenue from that to complete her pension and support herself and mom and me. She seemed to really enjoy having us live with her and offered plenty of intelligent conversation, something I was soon to discover was not abundant at Charles Floyd High School, which I would be attending. She always encouraged my artistry, saying that humans needed art to survive. “My personal favorite art form is knitting,” she’d tell me as she knitted away on a leopard pattern jumper. “It’s one of few where the supplies can just as easily be used to kill a man.”

 

Moving here was all in all, art excluded, a big life improvement for my mom, and me, in regards of health and finances and lack of tracksuits, but what life is improved by a lack of art? None. I started Charles Floyd HS just after Easter and had no trouble settling in academically despite it being in the middle of the school year. I managed to get out of P.E. using a forged doctor’s note (Grandma Fury had skills in the most unexpected areas) and the art department was almost properly funded, so there was at least a minimal chance to fill my artistic quota of life. The student body was made up to almost 100% by born and raised Simonville villagers and as expected, an out of towner from Nevada who couldn’t name you three variants of maize at all times of the day, caused little to no excitement whatsoever. I was not well-traversed in the art of making friends, but all artists have their weaknesses I guess. I did not really mind. Had I not minded in the desert, I would not mind in the cornfields, nor anywhere. Being alone was also an art form, and the one I was mostly skilled in. I’d get by.

 

What amazed me most upon starting life in Simonville was the curiously large number of delinquents here. For me, born and raised in a borderline gangster town of the gambling state of Nevada, to be surprised by seeing a lot of delinquents was strange for sure, but the attire and behavior of delinquents in Reno/Sparks and in Simonville – or should I say, Iowa in full – are a little, or rather, a great deal different.

 

Basically speaking, delinquents and hoodlums and troublemakers are essentially the same even if their philosophies and aesthetics aren’t (I am being generous here, describing them with such great words). In Simonville, bikers were the dominant delinquent subculture. Maybe wannabe bikers was a better word. They did not look… actually very menacing and most of their motorbikes were of the definitely not cool kind. They were Iowa farmer bikers, what did you expect?

 

So back to the topic at hand, the chances of me finding a kindred spirit among said bikers were slim. I was never good at making friends and the people in my school were not my people, and with the lack of artistic outlets, I was left with quite a substantial amount of free time. The pocket money I had saved up before the move was soon spent on the way too tedious trips by bus into Des Moines where I could at least get a hint at civilization.

 

In Des Moines, there were museums, and art galleries. Stores that sold books, music and art supplies while not being a super market at the same time. One of those galleries had in their possession two paintings by my biggest idol and inspiration, which made these trying journeys worth it. Of course I was talking about Sir Abraham Erskine. The one thing I will always owe to Reno is the summer I visited Artown (an art festival, in Reno, you have to see it to believe it, really) and found a temporary exhibition by him. I was utterly blown away and in hindsight I’m grateful the artist himself was not in attendance, for if he had been I would surely have made a total fool out of myself and possibly (probably) fainted. Erskine, having been born in Cologne, Germany in 1961 to Jewish parents, had spent his childhood in Switzerland, Australia, Tanzania and Macau before settling down in Brooklyn in his early twenties, and stayed there ever since. Almost entirely self-taught, he exhibited more knowledge and better understanding of art than anyone I have ever heard or read about and his work is simply _sublime_ , all of it. Even his, so to speak, “weaker” pieces really speak to its audience, incorporating its flaws and drawbacks, turning them into powerful weapons instead. I can’t really describe it (obviously, as I can see your confused frowns all the way over here). Erskine works across a broad spectrum, while the majority of his works are paintings he regularly produces sculptures, video art and music; once he choreographed an interpretive dance routine to an instrumental album. He works as a photographer on the side, producing many a stylish fashion editorials a year and also owns and operates his own gallery in New York. Sir Erskine, while not having been officially knighted by anyone but me, is simply _divine_.

 

By now, you have most likely made up your mind and found me, at best, _slightly_ obsessed. I’m not surprised. I suppose that when I say that art, more precisely Sir Erskine’s art, is the most precious thing in my life, most people of realistic reasoning would just laugh it off and call me a pompous teenage boy. I might be ridiculed, and never praised: dedicating myself to work, studies or sports is valid, they’d say, but devoting my entire being to something so trifling that could never put food on the table or bring valor to my country, is nothing more than throwing away the chances I have been given in life. Fine. People have different values, and I don’t think they can all be rounded up and measured in terms of “worth.” Even if I were wrong about that, and my aspiration to live and breathe as an artist is terribly foolish, or indeed the worst thing anybody could do, I still would not renounce it. Even if everybody in the entire world agrees that something is a piece of junk, if it to my eyes appears more precious than diamonds or a nearly-extinct, super cute animal, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to defend it to the death as the most important thing in the world. Even if every single member of humanity decides that something right is something wrong, it doesn’t matter. When everybody tells you to follow the plan for you laid out by someone else, if you don’t want to follow it, then it is your duty to plant yourself like a tree in a lone, starving desert without any plan but your own gut instinct, telling them: _No,_ **_you_ ** _follow_. That is who I am. Because even if you happen to meet the love of your life, human beings are born alone, and in the end they die alone. If you don’t prize the values you chose for yourself, then what happens to you?

 

I would not be pretentious enough to say things like “art saved my life” or “all I know I’ve learned from art” because neither is true. If it was, maybe I would say those things, obnoxious little brat that I am, but they’re not, so. But art has been involved in many life changing moments for me. Sometimes though, even the greatest pieces of art aren’t enough.

 

When I was eleven, my art teacher proposed to my mother and me that I apply to an out-of-town charter school with a great art program. She handed me the brochure, which to me was radiating like a Gutenberg bible; I was in awe. Restrained awe I should say, because I knew better than to open it and dream before I had considered the price tag of that dream. I immediately realized that even if I did get in, there was no way we could ever afford it. Ms. Coulson, that was my art teacher, seemed to understand this and hinted at a possibility for a full scholarship, but by now the prospects were reaching such fantastical proportions that even Tolkien would scoff at them. I simply smiled, said thank you and walked out of that parent-teacher conference set on forgetting the whole thing.

 

In the schoolyard however, after not seeing the expected enthusiasm in me, mom grabbed my arm and stared straight into my eyes, asking what’s wrong. So I shrugged and told her it would never happen, so why bother thinking about it?

 

“If people didn’t think or dream about things, Steven, how would they ever happen? If you can never imagine things, then how can you create them? Think like the artist you are inside, Stevie.”

 

I just stared at her, dumbfounded.

 

“I know we’re poor, and you do too, but you can’t let that keep you down. People are sometimes unhappy for the simple reason that they don’t dare to be anything else. When great happiness unexpectedly swoops down on people, they suddenly turn into cowards. Snatching happiness takes a lot more courage than enduring unhappiness. When you find something precious, you have to hold onto it with all your might and never let it go, whatever else you may lose. After all, there are lots of people who die without ever finding something that’s really precious to them, like you have with your art. But you’re no coward Steve, I know that better than anyone, including yourself. So don’t blow your big chance.”

 

She gave me a pat on the shoulder and started off towards the bus stop with her head held high. It took me a few moments to gather my composure and run after her, but I knew instantly that she was right. I spent weeks working on my application, with help both from mom and Ms. Coulson, who also got me great recommendation letters. I really did try my best.

  
Alas, alas, avid reader, as you must have figured out by this point, I never went to Desert Creek Charter School. I did not receive a full or half scholarship, since I did not get in at all. People can be brave in the face of happiness, sometimes the world just isn’t equally brave, mom said wisely as she read my rejection letter. She was right. It didn’t work out, and I was heartbroken and spent that summer drawing solely in charcoal and listening to The Cure. I didn’t stop making art, because you can’t be a coward in the face of either happiness or sadness. You just can’t, or what would become of you? Who knows, you might end up an Iowa corn farmer and that would be of more sadness than I could ever face, brave or not.


	2. Boy with Poor Elegance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this town where everything was half-assed or a knock-off of a knock-off, everything about Bucky was hick and utterly banal. So much that I couldn’t even laugh. The prettiest boy I’d seen in months and he had the personality of a scrapped SNL sketch; it was so pathetic that I could cry. He rode off amongst the cornfields, blaring J-pop from his homemade entertainment system.
> 
> Another thrilling installment of life in Cornfield Utopia.

 

_“Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.”_

_–_ **Vincent van Gogh**

 

In Simonville, enjoying art was, as you must have understood by this point, much more difficult and most importantly, more expensive than back in Reno/Sparks. My Des Moines travel fare money soon ran out, and by the end of April I needed to find a new source of income, or starve. (Figuratively, as is the way we artists actually prefer.)

 

I had had plenty of part time jobs back in Nevada, but there had also been plenty of people and jobs there whereas here… there was plenty of nothing but, you guessed it: corn. And corn farming was not really a profession I could venture into. In Reno/Sparks there had of course also been other, less… legal ways of procuring money, which never appealed to me, but it is worth a mention that even _that_ was scarce here. The solution I eventually ended up with was pretty unexpected, but came from a not so unexpected source.

 

I was looking through the job section of the Simonville Gazette (there was a local weekly Gazette! Huzzah!) one afternoon after school when Grandma poked her head over my shoulder and wondered what I was doing.

 

“I thought I’d try and get a job,” I told her plainly.

 

“Uh-huh,” she nodded and looked at me over her glasses and added “In this town?” using the same voice as people on Fox use for the phrase “In this economy?”

 

“Well, unless you’ve got a couple secret acres of extra farmland that we could sell off, then yes, even in this town I still gotta try.”

 

Grandma nodded slowly and went inside. “Follow me, son,” she called as she ascended the stairs.

 

Like the good grandson that I am, I followed and came upon her climbing up to the attic. I had not yet been up there, and was a bit surprised to find a space of Grandma’s that wasn’t in perfect order. Or, well, it was a meticulously organized attic, but in the center of it stood a small mountain of cardboard boxes, stacked on each other.

 

“These will probably be of more use to you,” she said, jerking a thumb towards the boxes.

 

I had to ask how, which prompted Grandma to open one up and pull out a hideous long black faux leather coat.

 

“By selling these. Each of these boxes are filled with different leather items, you could probably make a hack selling them! I’ve been thinking about it myself, but never got around to it.”

 

I eyed through a couple of other boxes of truly _hideous_ “leather items” and grew more sceptic by the minute.

 

“Grandma, who in their right mind would pay money for these?”

 

“The hicks of this town, who _else_?”

 

“Fair point but, did _you_ pay for them first?”

 

Grandma squinted at me with her one eye like only Grandma Fury can. “Watch your tongue, young mister. I never paid for these.”

 

“Implying you _stole_ them or something? Grandma, who in their right mind would bother to _steal_ these?”

 

“I never stole nor paid for any of this junk,” she informed me, patting a camel XXL vest absentmindedly.

 

Said and done, I placed an ad in the aforementioned Gazette, proclaiming I had large quantities of fake leather goods in new and unused condition. (New was perhaps a stretch, the ugliness of the clothes made it difficult to trace them to a certain fashion period and I could get nothing more out of Grandma of their fishy origins.) When I got no response, I realized that “pleather” would maybe have been a better turn of phrase, and that Simonville inhabitants had an ounce more dignity than I thought.

 

Or maybe not, it turned out when a letter did arrive almost two weeks later. The handwriting was neat and on real notepaper, even if the wording was a bit off.

 

“ _Esteemed Sir,_

_I am most graciously interested in the items you have to offer and would be honored to do business with you. Please make contact at the number stated below and we can surely come to an agreement._

_Yours faithfully and sincerely,_

_Mr. Bucky Barnes._ ”

 

Trying my hardest not to give in to the bizarre images that appeared in my head of the character of this Bucky Barnes, I texted him and suggested he’d come by and see the clothes in person (I used the word pleather this time). Thinking that no matter who he was I’d be safe with Grandma Fury around, we agreed on meeting the coming Sunday at noon, which, if things went smoothly enough, would give me the opportunity to at least get to Sioux City and back on Sunday.

 

The weekend arrived with nervous anticipation. Whatever I’d expected from Bucky Barnes, it sure as hell wasn’t what actually turned up on our front step a little before eleven am, with a loud honk.

 

Parked directly in front of our gate stood a – a motorcycle, I guess, I didn’t know much about them but, that, could not… be… anything other than a scooter. A very modified, and the most ridiculous one I had ever seen but a scooter nonetheless. Dismounting it was a teenage boy, bigger than me like all other teenage boys and also… vastly different from any teenage boy I had ever seen (yes, I said that, _shut. up_ ). He was wearing too skinny used-to-be-black jeans and Converse knock-off’s that had, if I was not much mistaken, been _painted_ black and a print t-shirt with the words “Sturgis, South Dakota” on it. On top of this, he was wearing a long, dark gray military coat ( _not_ Confederacy style, mind!) which he had obviously altered himself. The left arm had been spray-painted silver with a surprisingly even red star on the shoulder and down the front sides were printed words written in Cyrillic letters. (I would bet the closest twenty cornfields that he had no idea what they said.)

 

And his hair, oh boy. It was black, unkept (on purpose? by a great amount of work? Whichever it was he could pull it off) and long enough to be put up in a ponytail. He lifted his chin as a way of greeting, passed through the gate and started to approach me. _Uh-oh_ , my mind said instinctively. _Hey, at least he isn’t wearing a tracksuit_ , I thought to calm myself, to little avail. Ah, this close I could see it. It wasn’t a ponytail, it was a manbun. Also he had a nice, even, most likely photogenic face. Dark eyes and eyelashes that were simply unfair, accompanied by tanned, smooth skin. To top it off, he had a five o’clock shadow that I could _never_ mimic. Question was, what was he doing in Grandma Fury’s front yard?

 

“Hey kiddo, is your dad around?” he asked, smiling too widely and too friendly, trying to fit his large hands into his tiny jeans pockets.

 

“No,” I answered and frowned. “No dads around today, or any day.”

 

“Oh, okay, how ‘bout an uncle then? Or a big brother? Or–?”

“Who are you looking for, exactly?” I asked, my fears seeming less paranoid by the minute.

 

“Uhm, Steve? He had an ad in the paper?”

 

For the love of.

 

“Bucky?” I asked.

 

“That’s me!” he said, lowering his voice for some inexplicable reason, before… “Oh, so you must be Steve then? Sorry man, I thought you’d be older.”

 

“How old?”

 

“Like, more than twelve at least.”

 

_Twelve!_

 

“... I am 17, thank you very much.” I said, not because I wanted to keep socializing, but because I had to keep the record at least a little bit straight. _Almost_ 17 at least.

 

The weird-looking biker kid, aka the respondent to my ad, aka Bucky, whistled.

 

“Oh, dude, I can hear you’re from out of town but, have you ever heard of acting your age where you’re from? You dress, like, really weird.”

 

Said a resident of Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207, and in my head a voice was sneering _Well mister you try and outrun the tracksuit mob in those jeans and we’ll see who’s dressing appropriately then._ Outwardly, I just rolled my eyes and offered him to come around back to the shed where I’d stored away the boxes of jackets. There was nothing wrong with my chinos and pull-over, thank you very much.

 

“This is old lady Fury’s house, isn’t it? She didn’t die, did she?” Bucky asked from behind me as I unlocked the shed.

 

“Nope, healthy as ever, ending lives at bridge club,” I answered.

 

“Oh, okay, cool.”

 

I walked into the shed with ease, while Bucky, being a normal sized person, had to bend down significantly to get himself through the door frame. I waved a lazy hand at the dozen boxes and said “Knock yourself out,” then stepped aside to let Bucky rummage through them, something he did very graciously, to my surprise. He made a lot of “oooh’s” and “aaah’s” and even flashed a huge grin telling me everything looked “so awesome.” He whispered something about “not finding anything in Natasha’s size,” but apart from that, he seemed happy enough with what was, in my opinion, the most horrible fake leather jackets on the continent.  

 

After a lot of doubts, in which he even asked for my advice (“Doesn’t this look a bit Viking to you?” – What?), Bucky settled for a grey biker jacket, a pair of black pleather leggings and a navy blue studded pleather _scarf_ which he dug up out of the deepest, darkest box of fashion crimes. I asked for 25 dollars for the lot, in a mix of pity for the people he was gifting these atrocities too and out of a small amused interest in his taste. Bucky seemed over the moon at this price and even gave me a bear hug as a thank you, almost cracking my ribs while doing so. After that I tried ushering him as quickly out of the yard as I could; I had got my not hard earned money and would prefer not to be seen in the company of this, well, loser any longer than necessary. (To which you, dear reader, are more than correct to comment “Seen by _whom_? There’s absolutely no one around these boondocks!” But anyway.)

 

“So where do you go to school?” Bucky enquired while stuffing his acquired purchases into the storage box beneath his scooter seat.

 

“Um, Charles Floyd High School,” I admitted, hoping I wouldn’t suddenly meet Bucky again in science class come Monday morning.

 

“Okay, I’m over at Simonville Public, thought I hadn’t seen you around.”

 

Thank you, birthing mothers of Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207 for creating the need for multiple high schools in the community!

 

“But hey,” Bucky went on, “we should totally meet up and like, go for a ride sometime! What do you drive?”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“I don’t drive. Anything.”

 

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

 

“You don’t have a bike? This is Simonville, you gotta have a bike!”

 

Oh look, it was self-aware.

 

“While I sort of get what you mean, I have neither want or need for a bike, so…”

 

Bucky shook his head and to my horror, stepped back through the gates, walked all the way up to me and dragged me out again. Thinking that he was going to make me get on the scooter and stage a kidnapping to the nearest bike shop, I was relieved to find he only wanted to show it off as a means of persuasion. I was quickly amused.

 

“See, having a bike isn’t just about riding, it’s about building, customizing. Craftsmanship! Obviously I’ve trimmed the engine, but the paint and decoration is all unique too. Best part…” Here he bent down and pointed to the front body (Bike anatomy? Someone please explain? I am but a simple artist) where it appeared an old cassette tape player had been submerged in the metal. Bucky pressed play and out of the speakers came surprisingly loud and glaring Japanese girl pop. “Skye set it up for me,” he exclaimed proudly.

 

“That’s an innovative girlfriend you’ve got,” I said as the only form of compliment I could think of.

 

“Eww! No! Skye’s in my gang, and we don’t allow any dating between members.”

 

Oh, perfect. Here we go. I had let a _gang member_ onto Grandma Fury’s property. You can take the artist out of Reno, but not Reno out of the artist…

 

“I see. And what kind of gang would that be?” I enquired, to determine how much peril I was going to be in.

 

“Oh you know, the people you ride with. Every biker needs a gang, you know? You would know this if you had a bike!”

 

I simply nodded, wondering how Iowa biker gangs treated the non-gang affiliated population, giving Bucky enough of a time window to further explain the gang, and simultaneously his bike “craftsmanship.”

 

“We’re called The Bunheads, see,” he stated, pointing to the front of his coat and the back of the scooter seat, which was turned up way higher than necessary and covered with the same most likely misspelled Cyrillic words as the coat. “It’s written in Russian because our leader’s from there.”

 

“Wouldn’t Latin letters be handier though? So people know who you are?” I asked.

 

Bucky looked at me, not understanding.

 

“Everybody knows who we are.”

 

Right. In the presence of a Simonville biker celebrity here.

 

I nodded and hoped to end the conversation with a compliment.

 

“It is a nice scooter. I like the silver,” was the best I could think of.

 

“It’s not a scooter!” Bucky yelled with eyes filled with alarm.

 

“A Vespa?” I offered and took a step back.

 

“A bike is a bike is a bike,” he muttered. “But thanks.”

 

Should I take this to mean that Iowan biker culture was bereft of elitism or…?

 

“Hey, thank you so much for the leather stuff, they’re really cool. I definitely owe you one.”

 

I suppressed a shudder at the thought and tried to politely wave that off, not the least because the leather stuff were certainly not cool, but Bucky wouldn’t have it.

 

“I always stick to favors. I’m serious, if you ever get into trouble, just mention Bucky from The Bunheads.”

 

“If I get into trouble?”

 

Trouble, _moi?_ Cue a reference to another skinny albeit more magical boy, saying something akin to trouble finding him rather than the other way around.

 

Bucky gave a crooked smile that fit him all too well.

 

“If you do, I mean, you look like you’d need the help so, I’m your guy. Just mention it, ‘cause no one messes with The Bunheads, they’ll know to get out of your way.”

 

“And why is that?” I asked. Not that I would ever, ever ask for their help, but this gang sounded preposterous enough to be interesting.

 

“You’re obviously new in town, but everybody knows The Bunheads are Simonville’s toughest biker gang.”

 

“And why are you called The Bunheads of all things?”

 

“It’s what you call the hairstyle ballet dancers wear,” Bucky explained as if it was needed, and pointed to his own bun. “And ballet dancers are tough as shit, everybody knows that.”

 

“And you have a Russian leader,” I said and tried to fill in the blanks a bit more logically. (Not that he was wrong. I would recommend running faster from a ballet troupe than the Tracksuit Mafia.)

 

“Yeah, Natasha used to be a ballerina but she gave it up for biking, naturally.”

 

“Naturally,” I repeated.

 

“I’ll see you around, I guess,” Bucky finally said in parting, mounting the sco– sorry, bike. “If you need help picking out a model, give me a call!”

 

Without bothering to stress, yet again, that I did not want a bike, I nodded and waved goodbye. In this town where everything was half-assed or a knock-off of a knock-off, everything about Bucky was hick and utterly banal. So much that I couldn’t even laugh. The prettiest boy I’d seen in months and he had the personality of a scrapped SNL sketch; it was so pathetic that I could cry. He rode off amongst the cornfields, blaring J-pop from his homemade entertainment system.

  
Another thrilling installment of life in Cornfield Utopia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, _it begins._
> 
> When Bucky first plays a song from Skye's mixtape, it's Kikenna Futari by JUDY AND MARY, but I haven't been able to track down any links where you can listen to it, sadly. The song playing as Bucky drives away is [Tsumiki Asobi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=liygAOz1kt0) by Shiina Ringo. I had planned to put the full contents of Skye's mixtapes on 8tracks, but alas, I can't do that anymore since they closed the site for non-Americans. :(


	3. The Persistence of Grandmothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why is it there, what does it do? It looks a bit impractical.”
> 
> “Of course it’s impractical, it’s heavy! It puts too much weight at the front of the bike so you really gotta watch your steering, or it will steer you right into a ditch.”
> 
> Not that I could drive but that sounded alarmingly dangerous and also insane.
> 
> “So why did you put it there in the first place?”
> 
> “Because it looks good of course! It makes the bike special, one of a kind. Customization is all about proving that you’re serious about biking, that you’re putting your heart into it. And as you change, your bike changes with you: you add things, develop it. Like life.”
> 
> That was pretty deep, by my expectations of him. Deep, dedicated and at the same time still pretty stupid.

_ “I must stay alone and know that I am alone to contemplate and feel nature in full; I have to surrender myself to what encircles me, I have to merge with my clouds and rocks in order to be what I am. Solitude is indispensable for my dialogue with nature.” _

–  **Caspar David Friedrich**

 

On certain days of scheduling coincidences, I missed out on riding the glorious bus shared by both Simonville schools in total silence with mostly younger students and a few transportation impaired folks like myself, and instead rode with my mom. She didn’t drive herself but she car pooled almost every working day with Dr. Cho from the hospital where she worked. Mom used to be a nurse but had now moved on to the post of medical secretary, which was kinder to both her body and wallet. I knew next to nothing about Dr. Cho, except that she was the kind of lovely, almost perfect human being that my mother befriended straight away, and that was the highest grade by which I judged people (and I’m very experienced in that field). She was friendly enough when we exchanged our good mornings, and a good driver who didn’t mind a small detour to drop her colleague’s teenage son off at her own alma mater. 

 

A few weeks in at Charles Floyd, I managed to avoid verbal contact with my peers on an almost daily basis.

 

“Who are you friends with at school?” Bucky the biker texted me the day after our meeting.

 

“No one,” I replied thinking that conversation over.

 

“How do you manage that?” 

 

“It’s quite difficult finding someone with shared life experience,” I wrote back hoping that would at least seal the deal. (If it sounded aloof then that was the intention, yes.)

 

“What does that even mean,” he wrote and it was almost funny how more exasperated that missing question mark made him sound in my head.

 

I sent him a picture of a flyer that I had found taped to my locker when I arrived that morning, and that I had been staring at with mixed feelings of “you’ve got to be kidding me” and ”of fucking course”.

 

“Drive your tractor to school day is the best day of the year!!!” was the, I fear not-at-all-sarcastic reply and I barely managed a sigh as I took down the flyer and placed both it and my phone at the bottom of my backpack.

 

When the bell rang for the end of the day, I was back on the school bus, missing the stench of antiseptic in Dr. Cho’s car tremendously. The walk from the bus stop home took a good few minutes, but it was a good few minutes of walking in an entirely straight line and so I was within sight of the house the whole way.

 

It didn’t take me many steps to see something odd on the horizon: a small, dark dot where it wasn’t supposed to be. I slowed my pace and squinted at it, knowing with an ugly sense of foreboding what horror I was staring at.

 

“Usually, a seat back never extends beyond 63 inches, but mine’s 70! That kind of customization can cost you a lot of buck, but I’ve put it together myself with used parts so I managed it anyhow. I work part-time at a garage in Turrington after school and on weekends, sometimes. It’s a pretty small place that mainly does repairs and if you just look at it, it’s nothing fancy. But there isn’t a single biker in Iowa that doesn’t know it. Mackenzie Motors.”

 

“Oh, I’ve heard of it.”

 

“The guy that runs it, he’s really stern and buff when you first meet him, but if you need help with your bike he’ll do it every time – he can fix anything! Super nice paintjobs, awesome with the mechanics… since I work there, I get good discounts, especially if I do parts of the work myself. I’m still learning but, Mack, he’s a really good teacher.”

 

“I’m sure he is, son. And good afternoon, Steve! How was school?”

 

I had walked in on a serious conversation about scooters between Grandma and Bucky Barnes, the latter who whipped around at the sound of my name and smiled ear to ear.

 

“Hey, Steve!” he greeted and I tried hard (okay, not very hard at all) not to grunt at him.

 

I swung my bag of my back to get my phone and see if I had missed a text saying he was coming over but, no, Bucky Barnes had just decided to swing by completely unannounced. Why? Because he thought I needed the company, having no friends at school? To enlighten me on the greatness of tractors? To turn my grandmother into a scooter enthusiast like him?

 

“Everybody really loved the things you sold me yesterday,” he told me as he took a long stride towards me. “They even put in a few new orders! So I thought I really ought to say thank you” 

 

Here he stretched his hand out to me and even if I didn’t take my eyes off him, I swear to God I could feel Grandma’s eye burning into me with a ferocity that came from having lived a lifetime with good manners. So I shook Bucky’s hand.

 

“You can come take another look in the shed, if you want,” I offered. “There’s nothing new since yesterday, though.”

 

“You come back some other time and finish telling me about your bike, son,” Grandma called from the porch. “I need to get started on dinner now.” 

 

“Yes, ma’am!” Bucky called back and I could see Grandma purring to herself as she slid through the door.  _ Gran, please, stop this friend matchmaking, I am begging you. I am never getting rid of him if you keep inviting him back! _

 

This time, Bucky had come armed with requests from his gang mates and went through the boxes more carefully. I sat on a flower patterned hammock that had been stored away in the shed a few decades by the state of it, while Bucky sat neatly with his legs folded beneath him, sorting pleather clothes into different piles (he folded everything), continuing his bike monologue from before as if there had been no interruption.

 

“First time I went there, I was just looking to buy a bike, a good one but not expensive… and if I was going to be a biker I should learn how they worked, and nobody could teach me that better than a real mechanic, you know? I started coming around pretty often and after a little while, Mack asked if I wanted to do a proper interview for a job. And I got it! Even though I didn’t really know anything. That’s how I met Skye too, cause she was working there before and she had to teach me everything she knew. And she knows a lot, she totally  _ gets _ bikes. How you can take one that’s been smashed to bits or is completely rusted, and you maybe replace the engine, or save the engine and put it in another bike… you hammer out the dents and you build it up again. It’s almost like, hm, like…”

 

“Like art.” 

 

The word came to me naturally, listening to Bucky rambling. Not that it was the kind you’d put in a museum but, in terms of the process and his infatuation with it, art was the best word for it. 

 

“Yeah, art! I like that. I think if I really went for it, maybe I’d want to be a mechanic one day. If Mack would be willing to teach me that much. And I could specialize on custom work, like Skye does.”

 

“Like with the cassette player in your scooter?”

 

“It’s a boom box, in my  _ bike _ . But hey, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

 

Coming from anybody else I wouldn’t have questioned that wording, but considering our history I wondered if Bucky was still under the impression that I wasn’t a day above the age of twelve. Neither the twelve or nearly seventeen year old me had a good answer, though.

 

“I don’t know really,” I said and laid down on my back.

 

“You’ve only got a year left of high school,” Bucky said in protest, proving that he did know my actual age. “You got to decide soon. But you seem like the sort of person who has good grades, and you go to Floyd, so you can go to college easily.”

 

Putting the words “college” and “easily” together made my whole body squirm with almost nausea.

 

“College seems really…” I began.

 

“Far away? Iowa State’s pretty close you know.”

 

I turned my head to stare at Bucky, who was still on his knees with pleather goods in his hands.

 

“Too close,” I said sternly.

 

“How about back home then?” he asked, leaving my prayers that we were done with this topic unanswered. “Where is that?”

 

I gave a deep sigh, which I guess I did automatically when thinking of the dear old home state.

 

“Nevada. But I don’t want to go there.”

 

“Hmm, yeah, I haven’t heard of any colleges there anyway.”

 

You probably haven’t heard of any colleges in, let’s say, Connecticut or Massachusetts either, dear.

 

“What are you interested in then? Any hobbies? Like, besides plaid.”

 

“What? Plaid is not a hobby!”

 

“But you wear it all the time.”

 

“We’ve met  _ twice _ . Is…” I stopped here to look at what Bucky was wearing today, and saw that his printed t-shirt depicted a… motorbike. Argument void.

 

“Plaid is not my hobby,” I muttered.

 

“So what do you like?”

 

“Art.”

 

My eyes flickered over to him, and when I saw the first hint of sparkles in his eyes, I quickly added.

 

“Not the bike kind. Art as in paintings, sculptures, photography…and artist isn’t a regular job you just get. It’s something you are, and it doesn’t pay the bills really.”

 

“So just find something art related to do. Bet there’s loads of things! You can study art at college. And if you like it, it won’t matter that much if the pay isn’t that good, will it?”

 

That was not strictly true, but I decided to not get into that discussion as well.

 

“I’m not sure I want to turn things I love into work.”

 

“Why not? That would be the best thing ever for me, I think.”

 

“Well, because if I turned it into work, I’d probably have to do things I don’t enjoy doing as well, and I’d see things I loved from the other side. And I wouldn’t want that.”

 

Bucky shrugged and put the last item from the boxes in one of the piles in front of him.

 

“That’s part of the deal, I guess. It’s not a bad thing for me, because if you like it, really like it, you’ll have to like the other sides as well, the parts you don’t enjoy. You’ve got to do the rough work sometimes, but it’s worth it for the good work.”

 

“I guess I’m just not as idealistic as you,” I said and sat up. “You done?” 

 

“Yup. I found most things the gang wanted, this stash is incredible!”

 

Bucky stood up, holding his neat pile of incredibly  _ bad _ clothing with his left arm, and reaching into his pocket with his right for the money. I took the bills gratefully and in view of the escape from Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207 they could buy me, I guess talking to Bucky Barnes about my future prospects was a small price to pay. The rough work I had to do, in his words.

 

I followed him out to his bike to make sure he actually left and not returned to my grandmother’s side. I eyed his scooter again, trying to think of it as “art.”

 

“This sunshade kind of thing at the front, what’s it for?” I asked.

 

“That’s my rocket cowl!”

 

“Yeah, but what is the purpose of it?”

 

“What do you mean “purpose”?”

 

“Why is it there, what does it do? It looks a bit impractical.”

 

“Of course it’s impractical, it’s heavy! It puts too much weight at the front of the bike so you really gotta watch your steering, or it will steer you right into a ditch.”

 

Not that I could drive but that sounded alarmingly dangerous and also insane.

 

“So why did you put it there in the first place?”

 

“Because it looks good of course! It makes the bike special, one of a kind. Customization is all about proving that you’re serious about biking, that you’re putting your heart into it. And as you change, your bike changes with you: you add things, develop it. Like life.”

 

That was pretty deep, by my expectations of him. Deep, dedicated and at the same time still pretty stupid.

 

“You must love your bike,” I said and even if I did try to sound ironic, I didn’t succeed. Maybe because I didn’t mean it ironically after all.

 

“I guess you could say that. A bike is sort of your other self, if you do put your heart into it. You’re supposed to love it, I think.”

 

Bucky poked the back wheel with the tip of his shoe, like he was kicking it but was too careful of the bike to properly do so.

 

We stood in silence for a few more moments and I realized that I had to break the heartfelt mood with a change of subject if I ever wanted him to leave.

 

“So you’ve added the rocket cowl, and the boombox and that thing that was extra long. Doesn’t all that make it kind of slow?”

 

Bucky lit up with a new chance of explanation, and put the clothes in the compartment below the seat.

 

“Of course it does. It can only ever go 20 miles per hour.”

 

_ Wow _ .

 

“That’s incredibly slow, isn’t it?” I was almost impressed.

 

“So? Going too fast is dangerous, that’d be stupid.”

 

I had to challenge my prejudices about bikers constantly when talking to Bucky, but on this point I felt like I was still right in my opinion. That  _ was _ incredibly slow.

 

Keeping in line with his talk about danger, Bucky put on his helmet which was strangely ordinary compared to his bike and himself in general, and put the bike into gear.

 

“Thanks again, Steve. I’ll see you around!”

 

He drove out the yard and down the road, the voice of a girl singing something in Japanese about “beep beep” and “yeah” trailing behind him. 

 

I let the relief wash over me as I could enter the house at last, but as soon as I stepped into the kitchen it became clear that the relief was deceitful.

 

While I had been stuck in the shed, mom had come home and was setting the table while Grandma was smiling mischievously from where she stood by the oven. 

 

“I heard you had a friend over!” mom said in what she thought was her ordinary, calm voice but as her one and only son, I could certainly hear the excitement.

 

“He’s not my friend,” I said incredulously and I wasn’t wrong, was I?

 

“Whatever he is to you, he’s my dinner guest so make sure you invite him in next time he comes over,” Grandma said as the timer went off. 

  
Grandma’s word is law and I could not go against it, so then and there it became obvious that Bucky Barnes must not be allowed on her property again. Like ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plaid _is_ a hobby! Credit to this line goes to Sofia, who came up with it two years ago when we had just began planning this fic, and we needed a hobby/interest for Steve. #ICONIC
> 
>  
> 
> Next track on Skye's mixtape, with the "beep beep" and "yeah" is [Time Machine Nante Iranai](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYHoG6hO0QU) by Atsuko Maeda. :)


	4. Starry Night over the Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, and gave me a bemused smile. As I stared back at him determined not to budge, he slowly crossed his arms across his chest. 
> 
> “You are being stupid,” he said slowly. “Of course I’ll drive you.”
> 
> Reader, do forgive me. If you’re standing on a dark, deserted street in a nowhere town with a very good looking boy and you have to walk for almost an hour on a dark, deserted road to a house on a nowhere field… of course he’ll drive you.

_“There was a failure in aesthetic values, one had to admit; but in the culture of North America [Simonville] could not really be singled out for its bad taste.”_

**_– Desert of the Heart,_ Jane Rule **

 

My income of being a pleather retailer (my apologies to the fashion authorities, but alas, capitalism) had thanks to the patronage of The Bunheads grown large enough to purchase new return tickets to Des Moines by good old public transportation. Early a Saturday morning I set out on foot down to Simonville town center to catch a regional coach that would take me to Sioux City and the luxury and comfort of a Greyhound bus bound eastward. On weekend mornings, the bus passes Simonville once (1) and so I’d have to spend two hours in Sioux City first. That was still two hours away from here, so I graciously accepted.

 

When the bus station (made up of a metal post painted orange) appeared in my line of sight, I had covered the 50 minute walk without meeting a single person. I barely had time to reflect on that blessing, when a loud dialectal voice called out for me.

 

“Is that the the young Mr. Rogers I see walking about this fine morning?”

 

My face grimaced and took a few moments to unfold before I turned on my heel to greet whatever buffoon had recognized me. It might be an acquaintance of Grandma’s, and her daughter had taught me nothing if not to be polite.

 

The loud stranger turned out to be my biology teacher Mr. Pym. His appearance today, cargo pants and a polo shirt in shade of orange eerily similar to that of the bus stop, summarized his personality pretty well: garish and boring at the same time.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Pym,” I greeted. “I have a bus to catch, so…”

 

“Oh, going anywhere special?”

 

“Des Moines, sir.”

 

“All the way to Des Moines! Sure must be a special someone there worth that long a trip to you,” he said and (I’m horrified to remember it) _winked_ at me.

 

“I’m seeing an exhibition,” I said slowly. “And getting some art supplies.”

 

Mr. Pym laughed and slapped his hands against his knees, as if what I said was highly comical.

 

“You don’t need to go all that way for art supplies!”

 

I assumed he would claim that Sioux City had plenty of that, but…

 

“You can get that right here in Simonville.”

 

I should, and of course _did_ know that that was too good to be true, but couldn’t resist asking where.

 

And that was when all my prejudices of this town came true all over again.

 

“Why, at Costco of course!” Mr. Pym said so matter of factly it made me wince.

 

“... Costco,” I repeated. Did that mean something else in the Midwest than literally everywhere else?

 

“That’s the one. Ain’t nothing worth buying that Costco can’t sell you. Food, clothes, furniture, and art applies.”

 

He gave an all teeth, all genuine content smile, like he thought he had imparted me with great knowledge this morning.

 

“Take these shoes for example,” he said and lifted his foot up. “Costco. This fine shirt? Costco. And the materials for the dissection lesson next week, also Costco! And don’t get me started on the prices!”

 

He chuckled, but inside me a shrill voice was shouting “ _Please don’t let him start!_ ” I opened my mouth to say something in reply, anything whatsoever to derail the topic at hand, and, ah! Saved by the screeching tires of a rickety rural service bus rolling onto the street.

 

“I already bought my ticket, Mr. Pym, but I’ll be sure to check out Costco next time!” I called over my shoulder as I ran over to the bus stop to, as the expression goes, get the hell out of dodge.

 

The people of Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207 did not wear tracksuits. They wore _Costco_ and frankly, my readers? My pleather retail business felt almost charitable.

 

Several hours, miles and episodes of _This American Life_ later, I found myself standing again in my preferred Des Moines gallery. I’d come for the exhibition on contemporary _Modernista –_ an art movement sometimes described as Brazilian cubism _–_ but I couldn’t help myself to sneak up to the second floor to bask a moment in front of Sir Erskine’s paintings. Painting singular I should say, as I to my utter dismay learned that one of them had been sold, most likely to one of the regulars from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop (and who was probably gliding around downstairs being cultural). Even so, the one canvas would have to do, and it did suffice. Sir Erskine’s work felt secure to me _–_ as long as it was out there, I could find solace somewhere. One day I’d see more of them on their home ground in New York and that was plenty of motivation most days. Motivation to walk through oversaturated cornfields, clichéd school hallways and exhausted town centers.

 

The painting of Sir Erskine’s that hung on the second floor of the Van Dyne Gallery in Des Moines was titled _Aqua Sol_ and was a watercolor. All in pastels apart from the fire red and orange, it was a color study of a sun setting in shallow water. One of his simplest pieces, and not as highly valued as his more striking works. Perhaps that was why it hadn’t sold but of course that was only positive to me. I loved that painting enough myself to not care what others thought of it, and if I got to keep that love all to myself I certainly made no objections. The path of the loner was the one I had ended up following, and so when the world showed me I was going in the right direction, it only motivated me further. Art like this was where that path was going to lead me one day, that was what I did, and had to, believe in.

 

And yet, and yet. The road goes ever on and on and first it takes you on crooked paths and detours. 5.13 pm the Greyhound that would take me back to Sioux City departed with me on it, and back to Simonville I went. In transit, I guess you could call this trip it in my memoirs.

 

Stepping off at the same orange post long after dark that night, I at least did not find Mr. Pym there again. Relaxed and alone I started walking past the few closed shops, outside of which there were still lamp posts to shine the way. I had planned ahead for my nightly commute however, and was just about to reach for the flashlight in my backpack, stashed next to two new brushes and a box of new charcoal when a sudden shout made me trip over my feet.

 

I am sure I am not killing the suspense when I tell you that the source of the sound was none other than my non-consensual constant companion Bucky Barnes.

 

“Steve!” he called again, and as I struggled to regain the upright position as fast as possible, pushing my glasses back into place, I could hear him running towards me in his painted sneakers.

 

“You okay?” he asked, taking a gentle grip on my arm even though I was already standing up. The height difference was perhaps confusing in the dark.

 

“Fine and dandy,” I sighed. It had been too good a day to be spoiled by faceplanting into Midwestern concrete so through a few deep breaths I was trying to pretend that this meeting was not taking place.

 

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asked, suspiciously happy and still holding my arm. He was wearing his military coat again, street light reflecting on the silver sleeve.

 

“I just got off the bus, I’ve been in Des Moines.”

 

“D’you wanna go to the arcade?”

 

“The what?”

 

“The arcade.”

 

“Where’s that, in Costco?”

 

“What? There’s no arcade in Costco, you dope! Why would there be?”

 

“I was told the Simonville Costco had _everything_ …”

 

“Well, everything but an arcade then. It’s right next door, though.”

 

“That almost counts.”

 

“No, it doesn’t! Everything’s next door here!”

 

I didn’t think I had hit my head in the fall, but since Bucky just defeated me in logic reasoning I wasn’t so sure.

 

“I’m going home, I haven’t had dinner yet,” I said and tried to regain use of the arm that Bucky was still clutching.

 

“Oh, Costco’s still open if you want to grab something there?”

 

That was the exact opposite of what I wanted!

 

“No thank you,” I said curtly instead, and before Bucky could fire off his next argument, a rusty car rolled past us, or rather tried to roll past us, but it gave out three short huffs and then screeched to a halt. We were both staring at it, but when Bucky suddenly let go of me I turned to him and saw with surprise that his frown was deep enough to push his eyebrows all the way together.

 

The driver of the car seemingly accepted this place as his parking spot for the evening through some divine intervention and didn’t even try restarting the car, and just got out instead. He had blonde hair that was dirty both in color and you know, state, and was wearing sweat pants. It was 9 pm but by the look on his face it might just as well have been morning. It didn’t appear he had even noticed we were standing there.

 

“Clint,” Bucky growled in a surprisingly deep voice. (I reluctantly admit that it sounded… pleasant in a way.)

 

The driver named Clint turned around, scratching his chin with a vacant expression but his mouth fell a little at the sight of Bucky. His mind seemed to struggle for a few seconds before he recognized him.

 

“Barnes,” he said and then laughed. “Looking stupid as always.”

 

I called Bucky stupid all the time, but this Clint person really didn’t seem to have any right to use that word about anyone besides himself.

 

“I can get smarter, Clint, but there’s no cure for being a crapsack,” Bucky said, still using his low, growling voice. It was a better comeback than I had expected him capable of.

 

Clint laughed again and started walking away.

 

“Whatever, some of us have jobs to go to,” he said waving his hand in a shoo-ing motion.

 

“Only cause you’re too dumb to be hired anywhere else!” Bucky called after him, actually _shaking his fist_ in Clint’s general direction.

 

Bucky proceeded to angrily stomp his feet to the ground, going “Argh!” and for once seemed to have forgotten about me.

 

“Your arch nemesis?” I asked timidly.

 

“I hate that guy,” was the muttered reply.

 

“So I see.”

 

“He’s Nat’s ex… And he works at the arcade, so I can’t go there now.” He spun around, wiping the frown off his face immediately. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

 

With Grandma’s instructions to invite Bucky in for dinner clear in my head, I began shaking my head before he even finished the sentence.

 

“No, I’m going home,” I said again.

 

“Okay, I probably should as well. Do you want a ride? I’m going in your direction anyway.”

 

The thought of getting on the off-balance scooter that Bucky himself had trouble driving was intimidating, could it even handle two people? I wasn’t keen on sitting pressed against him as we drove to our certain deaths in a ditch or a cornfield either.

 

“I prefer walking, thank you.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot, you just fell down walking a few minutes ago.”

 

“Because you scared me, not because I can’t walk!”

 

“Well, you said you hadn’t eaten and I’m not gonna let you walk all that way while you’re starving.”

 

“And why not?”

 

“Because it’d be rude, that’s why!”

 

Oh, what did that matter…

 

“I am still perfectly capable of walking home from here. It’s not that far.”

 

As I said the last words I wanted to bite my tongue. Not far? Everything in rural America is far! Only delusional country folks fooled themselves otherwise. Ugh, what did that say about me…?

 

Bucky raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, and gave me a bemused smile. As I stared back at him determined not to budge, he slowly crossed his arms across his chest.

 

“You are being stupid,” he said slowly. “Of course I’ll drive you.”

 

Reader, do forgive me. If you’re standing on a dark, deserted street in a nowhere town with a very good looking boy and you have to walk for almost an hour on a dark, deserted road to a house on a nowhere field… of course he’ll drive you.

 

He didn’t drive us to our deaths and we passed every single cornfield unscathed, but I was still intimidated sitting pressed close against him. For several reasons.

 

“We’ll go to the arcade some other time. See you!” he said and drove away, this time in silence because it was late and The Bunheads had a code of conduct, apparently.

  
Ironic parting words really, because it really was too dark for him to see me and that was good. Remember the fire red sun on Sir Erskine’s painting in Des Moines? My face was a decent interpretation of that sun right then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail Costco! For all the thrash talking it gets in this fic, I'm sure it's a magical place. I've never been there but just yesterday a new co-worker randomly told me "I wish we had Costco in Sweden. It's the best store in the world."
> 
> The quote in the beginning from Jane Rule's _Desert of the Heart_ is actually about a fictional casino called Frank's Club in Reno. The book will make an appearance in the fic later on, and I can recommend it! Sort of a lesbian classic. :)
> 
> Modernista is described in _Artists from Latin American Cultures: A Biographical Dictionary_ by Kristin G. Congdon  & Kara Kelley Hallmark: "Early twentieth-century art movement in Brazil that derived from European Cubism. [Tarsila do Amaral](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tarsila_do_Amaral) and [Anita Malfatti](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anita_Malfatti)  developed their own version of Cubism by incorporating Brazilian themes, which resulted in a "Brazilian Cubism," or what is known as Brazilian Modernism."


	5. Landscape with the Fall of Steve Rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s the thing with corn though, it doesn’t listen. It doesn’t rescue you from scrappy hillbilly wannabe bikers who desperately want to be your friend. It just brings you closer together, with nowhere left to run. 
> 
> Sigh.
> 
> Despite my best efforts, I was stuck with Bucky Barnes now, wasn’t I?

_“The artist should not only paint what he sees in front of him, but also what he sees inside himself. If, however, he sees nothing inside himself, then he should also stop painting what he sees in front of him.”_

**– Caspar David Friedrich**

 

I spent the whole Sunday and most of Monday in class getting the hand of my new charcoal. (I made sure to avoid Mr. Pym’s dissection lesson.) I liked it, but I still missed scenery to draw. Eyeing the graffiti on the school bus that afternoon, it felt like my sketches hardly depicted anything better than what these scribbles did.

 

I might have to succumb to painting the cornfields, I thought, easily the grimmest artistic thought I had had in a while. Maybe I’d use the new brushes for that. But the forces of the universe conspired for something else that day, saving my brushes but definitely throwing me under the bus while doing so.

 

Standing by the bus stop when I got off was Bucky, leaning against his bike. It was probably too warm for his coat today, so instead he only wore a printed t-shirt that said “Harley Davidson, Omaha” and his usual skinny jeans, and a black backpack on one shoulder.

 

“What are you doing here?” was my reaction when stepping down in front of him.

 

“Thought I might as well meet you here,” he said shrugging, smiling.

 

On the one hand, this was a negative turn of events: if Bucky meant to make a tradition of this then my odds of avoiding him would rise even higher. On the other, positive hand: if I could stop him from coming to the house, Grandma couldn’t get her clutches on her wanted dinner guest.

 

“Well. You didn’t have to.

 

“It’s less than a mile from your house.”

 

“That’s not what I– why are you here?”

 

“To see you, why else? Have you eaten properly today?”

 

He grinned as he said that, I rolled my eyes.

 

“Yes.”

 

I turned to start walking, contemplating how I could shake him off before reaching the house.

 

“Uhm, thanks for the ride last time. I need to get home, lots of homework, you know.”

 

I started walking, hoping that this would be the day Bucky would be deterred by my standoffishness.

 

“Me too, we can study together.”

 

It wasn’t.

 

I had already gotten a few steps ahead but Bucky soon caught up.

 

“I study best alone and – aren’t you bringing your bike?”

 

“Why? I locked it to the bus stop.”

 

“Yeah, but…”

 

“Nobody ever comes by here except your family, so it’s cool.”

 

Was he implying that we lived in an extra off part of this place? Cruel.

 

“Okay. As I was saying however, I study best alone so, it really would be best if… you stopped following me right now…”

 

With every word I tried to quicken my pace, but Bucky kept up, looking at me innocently as if he didn’t understand what I was saying.

 

“I’m not following you, I’m hanging out with you,” he stated matter-of-factly.

 

“I don’t need you to!”

 

“Yes, you do,” he insisted. “Before I joined the gang, I didn’t hang out with anyone really, but I definitely needed it.”

 

“I guess we’re just different you and I,” I sighed in annoyance and kept walking as fast as I could without catching my breath.

 

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Bucky stopped.

 

“Good!” I continued on.

 

“So do you wanna join our gang?”

 

I should, should, should have kept walking but this preposterous suggestion again bugged me enough to stop me in my tracks. Persistent boy.

 

“They’re different! From me, and from you, so there’s bound to be someone you can connect with. You’d have to stop wearing that much plaid, but you’d be very welcome.”

 

I turned around and looked at him, standing 15 feet away and shouting nonsense. Earnest nonsense but nonsense nonetheless.

 

“I don’t want to join your gang,” I said loudly and slowly, articulating every word. Could he not just leave me alone? He answered an ad and I sold him some ugly clothes, this was not how you made friends! Even I knew that!

 

“Okay,” he called and I began turning around, taking this to mean that he had finally given up on me, like normal people always did except at a quicker rate.

 

But then I heard running behind me.

 

“I guess you’re stuck with just me then,” he said as he approached.

 

I turned around once again, this time standing face to face and looked Bucky in the eye.

 

We stood there a little while in silence, me because I had run out of words to scare him off with and also because the shouting while practically jogging had made me short of breath. Bucky looked perfectly relaxed, face blank but slightly smiling.

 

I broke eye contact in exasperation and my gaze instead fell on, of course, corn. I took three steps towards the edge of the field, reached in and grabbed a cob and tried to jank it off. On the third attempt it came loose. I stomped back to the roadside and pushed the rock hard cob into Bucky’s hands.

 

“I’m not the one who apparently needs someone to hang out with, okay? If you want a friend, here. Corn can be your friend now.”

 

Before Bucky could stupidly comment on this also very stupid maneuver, I turned back to the cornfield with a deep breath and took off running into the crops.

 

Since moving to Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207, I had not entered any of its many fields and that would probably have remained the case had I not been forced to take drastic measures, like the one I was taking right now. As the green threadbare leaves slapped against my face, I recalled a distant memory of doing this as a very small child visiting Grandma. A time when I didn’t know Simonville or had to live in it. It was a happy memory.

 

I was running in what I assumed was a straight line, but I guessed it didn’t really matter. The corn would go on forever.

 

“Hey, Steve! Stop!” I heard Bucky yelling behind me, and if my previous attempt to shake him off had taught me anything it was that he was much faster than me (and in better physical shape, but who wasn’t). So I ran as fast as I could.

 

You’re probably sitting back marveling at this meaningless and dumb endeavor of running away from someone in a cornfield. We’ve all seen this motif in countless films before, and it never works, does it? Well, desperate times, dear readers. Desperate times and infinite stupidity.

 

“STEVE!” Bucky sounded annoyed now, for the first time. “You can’t just – go – into – _the cornfields_! You’ll destroy them!”

 

I couldn’t see my small frame hurting the tall crops around me, but I also willingly admitted that Bucky knew more about corn than I. Still, I didn’t stop.

 

I should have stopped.

 

“Steve!” Bucky called my name one last time and then a seemingly huge and very firm weight hit my back and I fell and really did faceplant into Midwestern soil with a thud, glasses flying.

 

I can’t believe he… _body slammed me?!_

 

“You can’t go running into cornfields like that,” I heard Bucky’s voice from behind me, as he rolled off of me. “You okay?” He patted my back.

 

I grunted and turned my head, spitting out some dirt.

 

If five years of wearing a back brace didn’t straighten out my scoliosis, then blunt force trauma might have done the trick.

 

“Better now?” Bucky asked half an hour later.

 

After having half dragged, half carried me back to his bike and driven to our house he had instantly been invited in by a delighted Grandma, despite all my best efforts to the contrary. Now I was lying on the floor, on my back with legs up against a wall to stretch my spine and with my head on a pillow. I stared up at my toes miserably, having failed both with keeping Bucky out of my house and my life.

 

“I am feeling slightly more anatomically correct,” I droned.

 

“It would have been so much easier if you’d just agreed to join The Bunheads, wouldn’t it?” Bucky said pointedly.

 

I moved my head slightly to the left, looking at him. He was kneeling some distance away.

 

“I’m still not joining.”

 

“Do you have a better reason than running away into a field?”

 

“I will never become a biker, or even ride a bike, or fight anybody or slam them to the ground, or join a gang or any group where I had to stop wearing plaid.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because bikers are so uncool.”

 

“Did you just diss my entire life?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I should kick your ass.”

 

Bucky had leaned forward more and more during this conversation, looking at me with an affronted expression.

 

“You already did,” I reminded him. “For _corn_.”

 

Bucky began to laugh at that, and stretched out his legs so he was lying on his stomach, leaning on his elbows.

 

“If you ask me, or anyone around here, then you’re the one who’s uncool wearing…” He pointed to my pants, searching for words. “... Corduroy and pullovers when you’re in high school already.”

 

“Bucky,” I sighed. “Your clothes don’t even fit you and you paint your shoes.”

 

He looked affronted again, and I wondered if he really did think he should kick my ass. I hated pain, I was already in pain, but I certainly wasn’t going to apologize.

 

“You know,” Bucky said then, a big smile erupting across his face. “You wear those grandpa clothes, but you've got a lot of nerve, dude. A lot more nerve than some of those posing half-ass bikers around town.”

 

I blinked.

 

“So you aren’t going to kick my ass again?”

 

“Nah. I owe you too much.”

 

It threw me off guard, so much that I couldn’t think of a witty response. Was he thinking about the pleather clothes again? I couldn’t have parted with them more willingly.

 

The front door opened and a few moments after, mom was standing in the living room doorway, staring at me and Bucky on the floor.

 

“Hi, Stevie,” she said with a questioning voice. “Everything alright?”

 

“No insulting guests under my roof” and things like that, that Grandma and mom both strongly believed in decided for me that it would be easier not to explain things further right now, so I just said yes.

 

Meanwhile Bucky stood up and brushed his hands on his jeans before moving to shake my mother’s hand.

 

“How do you do, ma’am,” he said because of course did, and mum looked like she’d received an unexpected compliment.

 

“Well hello there. You must be Bucky.”

 

She shone like the sun as she said his name and there was nothing I could do about it than just lie there.

 

“Are you staying for dinner?” she asked next.

 

“ _YES HE IS_ ,” Grandma yelled from the kitchen before Bucky had time to answer.

 

“How lovely!”

 

Mom was always honest, but sometimes she was extra honest. She was really thrilled to have him here.

 

“I’ll see you boys in a little bit,” she said and left to hang her coat, giving me a meaning look as she did so.

 

“ _I’m so happy for you Steve, but don’t mess this up_ ,” is what she most likely meant to say by it.

 

To add to the long list of non-flattering words I’d use to describe Bucky, I had to add a positive one after that night’s dinner. Bucky Barnes was, through and through, a mother-in-law’s dream. He was a scrappy hillbilly wannabe biker from the cornfield outback, with a horrible sense of dress and a worrisome intellect, pretty bad-boy looks and too tight clothes, but he had manners at a level I had only ever seen represented in my mom. Obviously she was entirely smitten. Grandma was as well, even though the smirk she wore while watching Bucky over her glasses did disturb me greatly. I let the three of them get acquainted with each other while passing as much of dinner in silence, wishing time would move just slightly faster.

 

As he drove off that evening, at last, it was with the boombox volume turned slightly down, and with me watching him leave in the company of my whole family standing on the front porch.

 

“He’s wonderful!” mum said, sounding tired and delighted.

 

“No, he’s not,” I said, stressing the o’s.

 

Mum snorted, and I could tell she was giving me the hairy eyeball.

 

“I invited him back anyway,” Grandma huffed cheerfully.

 

Ugh, _Grandma_.

 

“It’s not like you to have such cloudy perception,” mom said dryly and turned back inside.

 

“Maybe he’s the one clouding it,” I muttered back, not expecting anyone to actually hear me.

 

“If you want to know what _I_ think,” Grandma said, leaning close and putting her head on my shoulder. “I think he’s good for you, clouds and all. I haven’t heard of many boys you would run into a cornfield for.”

 

She patted my shoulder and left me alone on the porch, wanting to scream at aforementioned cornfields; not _for_ him, _from_ him!

 

That’s the thing with corn though, it doesn’t listen. It doesn’t rescue you from scrappy hillbilly wannabe bikers who desperately want to be your friend. It just brings you closer together, with nowhere left to run.

 

Sigh.

  
Despite my best efforts, I was stuck with Bucky Barnes now, wasn’t I?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today because I don't know how much time I'll have during the rest of the week!
> 
>  
> 
> And the J-pop song playing this fateful night is [Fallin Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4zXj00Es-c) by 7!!.


	6. Crepuscular Odd Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What, exactly, are you trying to order, Bucky?” I asked, setting my jaw and preparing for yet another impact of Stupid.
> 
> “You know, Coffee Olé.”
> 
> Wow.
> 
> “Coffee–”
> 
> “Olé! In Spanish!” Bucky said chirpily.
> 
> _Oh my God._
> 
> I stared at him for what felt like several minutes, utterly incredulous how this person was allowed to walk around freely (and, ugh, in a year’s time, be allowed to _vote_ ).

_ “ _ _ It was unfair that people could pretend to be one thing when they were really something else. That they would get you on their side and then do nothing but fail, and fail, and fail again. People should come with warnings, like cigarette packs: involvement would kill you over time.” _

**– Lauren Oliver,** **_Rooms_ **

  
  


The fallout of my latest rendezvous with Bucky Barnes was that I had given up my efforts to escape him. He was impossible that way, and with the aid of my enabling family, I had found myself in a position where I regularly spent time with him. 

 

But having Bucky around the house was beginning to be as overbearing as he was, so the next time he invited himself over I suggested that we might go somewhere else. As previously stated on numerous occasions, Simonville was filled with vast quantities of nothing but corn and Costco shoppers, so I did hold a smallish hope that our limited offers would result in me and Bucky meeting more seldom. 

 

Stupidity always finds a way, though, I must say, and whenever you are escaping from something you always end up at, ah, you already guessed it: Denny’s.

 

I had foolishly imagined in my adolescence that the countryside would be a bit more filled with independent enterprises, the kind of roadside diners that both looked and were authentic, and in which you could have fashionable photoshoots, but if this was true, it was not true of Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207. If you wanted to sit down with a cup of coffee, a burger and fries, or pie á la mode, Denny’s was your best, and only, bet.

 

The roadside Denny’s of Simonville only required a fifteen minute walk from my house (closer than Costco, even) and so my reasons for turning Bucky down were nil. I took a deep breath before entering, deciding to regard the whole affair as an anthropological study of the locals. Also, I told myself, it was bound to be cleaner than any Denny’s I’d been to in Nevada. 

 

In the late afternoon the place was empty apart from a waiter in his thirties who was hovering around a couple of elderly ladies who I was sure were well acquainted with Grandma Fury’s ruthlessness in bridge.

 

Bucky waved at me from a booth by the window, a gesture that caught the waiter’s attention and he turned towards the door and looked at me with genuine surprise that another customer was coming in that day. He made it over to our table before I did, dropped two menus and left again.

 

As I slid into my seat, Bucky handed me one of the menus and straight away asked,

 

“What are you having?”

 

I found it a tad alarming that we were now apparently close enough to have moved past the stage where greetings were necessary, but I decided the best course of action to get through this day was to ignore it.

 

“Anything you can recommend?” I asked, expecting the usual ludicrous Bucky-esque answer. Maybe something like chili with a side of pistachio ice cream instead of sour cream (did they even have pistachios in Iowa?), or corn soup with brownies sprinkled on top (they probably did have that in Iowa). 

 

Instead Bucky told me he’d never been here before.

 

“Nope! Didn’t know about this Denny’s place before you told me. You already know more about Simonville than me!”

 

Pallas Athena, what an atrocity. This was coming from Bucky Barnes, but still…

 

I needn’t defend myself against that accusation due to the timely appearance of the waiter.

 

“I’ll have a Spanish coffee,if you please,” Bucky ordered with a high amount of civility. Which didn’t really help either way though, since the waiter simply blinked at him.

 

“What,” I muttered.

 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not sure we serve that here…” the waiter said shrugging.

 

“Oh, really? I thought they served that everywhere.”

 

I could feel my benevolent side taking over. 

 

“What, exactly, are you trying to order, Bucky?” I asked, setting my jaw and preparing for yet another impact of Stupid.

 

“You know, Coffee Olé.”

 

Wow.

 

“Coffee–”

 

“Olé! In Spanish!” Bucky said chirpily.

 

_ Oh my God. _

 

I stared at him for what felt like several minutes, utterly incredulous how this person was allowed to walk around freely (and, ugh, in a year’s time, be allowed to  _ vote _ ).

 

“Bucky,” I said, “do you mean cafe au lait?”

 

“Yeah, Coffee Olé!”

 

Slowly I turned to the waiter (whose name tag informed me that his name was Scott) with an expression I was hoping was more akin to “dog wanting desperately to be kicked” rather than “dog having recently been kicked” but he just looked at me with raised eyebrows.

 

“Two cafe au lait’s coming up?” he suggested helpfully.

 

“Yes, please,” I whispered back, just to end the horrible situation of stupid before I did something drastic. 

 

As Scott the waiter took our menus and moved away towards the kitchen again, Bucky put his hands on the table and looked me intently in the eye.

 

“So, have you found anyone to hang out with at school yet?” he said rather aggressively.

 

“No, I told you, it’s hard to…”

 

“Find someone with shared life experience, yeah yeah,” he said, waving a hand and repeating my words. “You need to get to know people in order to learn their life experiences.”

 

“My intuition is just very good.”

 

Bucky simply “pfft’d” at that.  

 

“Maybe I don’t want to get to know people,” I continued. It wasn’t a very clever answer.

 

“That’s just not true, everyone needs people. You need to get to know them, even if you think you don’t want to.”

 

“I’m pretty sure  _ they _ don’t want to know  _ me _ , though.”

 

“Lots of people would want to know you, why wouldn’t they?”

 

It sounded dismissive at first, but then it dawned on me that he was probably being sincere. He looked honest enough with his confused expression, like he really didn’t… understand why some people just aren’t popular, or mix with others. Such a sweet, innocent and happy child.

 

“Two cafe au laits’,” Scott the waiter announced as he put two wobbly cups down on our table. He gave two thumbs up without making eye contact and shuffled over to the pair of ladies again.

 

“I always wondered what Spanish Coffee tasted like…” Bucky whispered, mostly to himself, while poking the foam with a spoon in childish delight. He brought the cup to his lips and sniffed it, then took a sip and sat still smacking his lips, as if a Denny’s latte had an intriguing palette. 

 

The bell on the door rang, and I looked up only to see Clint, the guy who gave us trouble in town a few days ago walk in, apparently after a long shift judging by his zombie state. He walked straight to the counter, took a whole jug of coffee, slouched down at a table and began drinking straight from it. A bit alarmed I looked around to see what the other patrons but mostly the staff would think of this. No one seemed to have noticed, but catching my eye Scott the waiter took one look at Clint and shook his head, telling me not to worry about it. 

 

“Hey,” I said while stirring my coffee, “why do people call you Bucky?”

 

He stared at me blankly.

 

“Because it’s my name.”

 

“Is it though,  _ James? _ ”

 

I stopped stirring and looked with glee on “Bucky’s” panic stricken face.

 

Yesterday when I called him, his mom had answered the phone and told me that she’d tell someone named James to call me back. Right then and there it occurred to me that maybe not even in Iowa was Bucky someone’s real, legal name. Simonville Public didn’t have much concerns over student integrity it turned out and a simple search on their website gave me exactly what I needed: James Buchanan Barnes.

 

“Who  _ told _ you?” Bucky whined and buried his face in his hands, meanwhile I just sat back smiling.

 

“He was a President,” he muttered to the table.

 

“Oh, I know.”

 

“And my parents are… presidential freaks?! I mean, that’s even how they met, in a fan association for president fans! My mom wasn’t even American, she’s Pakistani and she still cared so much she married another nut job just like her and then _named me this_.” 

 

Here Bucky made a dramatic pause in which he put his forehead to the table. He snapped his head up and glared at me.

 

“Not even you would do something as nerdy as that.”

 

“Oh no, that’s totally something I would do,” I replied in all seriousness and took another sip. “Are your siblings named in the same way? Did they get worse or better Presidents?”

 

“I only have sisters,” he sighed.

 

“So…?”

 

“So Eleanor, Hillary and Michelle.”

 

Here I must admit that my mouth fell open a little. Maybe not even me, after all.

 

But Bucky’s face erupted in glee and he gave a short chuckle.

 

“Yeah. But those are normal names at least! Mom thought it “unsuitable” or whatever to name girls after old men and since there has been no female president… they’re always joking that one of them will be the first.”

 

He was quiet for a moment and made a disgruntled face.

 

“But there were no doubts about  _ my  _ name….”

 

I am not a big enough person that I wasn’t enjoying Bucky’s misfortune,  _ au contraire! _ This was the most fun I’d had in a long while and I had a feeling things would just get weirder the more I kept asking. Like, why just this president? So that’s what I enquired for next.

 

“I keep forgetting you’re such an out-of-towner,” Bucky said and rolled his eyes (I was of course deeply affronted that it was that easy to mistake me for a native). “Buchanan County is in Iowa.”

 

“Uhm, okay. Did you used to live there before?”

 

“No, but he did, duh.”

 

“No... he didn’t? Buchanan’s from Pennsylvania.” I thought about it for a moment. “Wouldn’t your parents know this?”

 

In exasperation, Bucky hit his fist on the table.

 

“Then why the hell did they– you know, whatever, the less I know about US presidents, the better!”

 

Ah, young Barnes, parental rebellion is one thing, but that statement was just factually wrong.

 

“You know, when I was born, they drove over to Buchanan-not-actually-Buchanan, Iowa and took a family picture by the county sign? And then put it in the Iowa Presidential Society’s monthly newsletter? Every year for my birthday, every single year, I get cards from total nerd strangers. And they’re all red, white and blue and patriotic and my birthday isn’t even in July…”

 

Here I, in an almost poetic case of inappropriate timing, managed to choke on my coffee in what I can only assume was the workings of a malevolent power wanting to shift some embarrassment onto me. Bucky seemed keen on politely ignoring it, but then stopped.

 

“When’s  _ your _ birthday?” he asked me with one eyebrow raised.

 

I contemplated straight up lying to his face for a short moment, but what the hell.

 

“Good ol’ Fourth of July,” I deadpanned, but I never got the chance to witness Bucky’s reaction. Something hit our table hard, knocking over my almost empty cup in the process.

 

“ _ Are you aware of the suffering caused by the unethical global fishing trade? _ ” a dark and hoarse voice boomed just to the right of me. 

 

Looming over our table stood a tall and skinny man with shiny, backcombed black hair. He wore a Jaws t-shirt with a big red X splashed across it, and kept his arms straight down his sides. He had slapped a clipboard against the table and was now staring us down, daring us to not sign it, I supposed.

 

“Yes, sir,” Bucky replied while looking the man in the eyes.

 

“Do you consume the fruits of the ocean?” he boomed again, eyes darting slowly back and forth between the both of us.

 

“Why, yes,” was the honest answer for my part at least, and what I probably would have answered had I opened my mouth. It was probably also what Bucky expected me to say, because before I moved my lips he kicked me hard under the table.

 

“No, sir,” he said.

 

“Good,” the man whispered with eyes open wide. “We must protect the Five Great Seas.”

 

He lingered on the s, almost hissing and turned his head to observe the other patrons. His gaze fell upon Clint in his corner booth and his eyes narrowed. Clint looked alarmed but too unconscious to do anything about it, so remained still in his seat with a slight look of worry on his face.

 

“I do not like that man,” the fish friendly guy whispered and Bucky nodded with approval.

 

And just like that, he took his clipboard off our table and walked straight out the door. The loud “oww” I’d been holding in since Bucky’s kick was let out and I turned to him for an explanation.

 

“Was this my official introduction to the town loon?” I asked, massaging my shin bone.

 

Bucky shrugged and shook his head at the same time.

 

“That was Namor. He’s not crazy, just passionate.”

 

“The oceanic version of your parents, then?” I tried. “Oh God, you’re not related are you?” Knowing what I unwillingly knew about the level of enthusiasm that ran in the Barnes family, and the size of this town, it didn’t seem that unlikely.

 

Bucky just sighed and patted my hand, informing me that “Not all Asians are related,” which I guess I deserved. 

 

“Might want to extend the geography lesson to your beloved parents if they keep insisting your namesake was a proud Iowan like their son,” I retorted instead because, well. I still found it very difficult to agree with anything or anyone in this town. Maybe being in the wrong gave me some strange satisfaction, a confirmation that the feeling of being misplaced that I felt walking home was just meant to be and not a factor that I had any control over. I couldn’t possibly change this alienation, it was what it was, regardless of whatever good willed attempt outlandish characters like Bucky might make. 

 

But if I did not like Clint either, didn’t that mean that I fit right in with at least two people in this place? Human error and mishap coincidence I told myself, as Bucky’s J-pop blaring bike grew smaller on the horizon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the delay, real life and work has been stressful for the past two weeks. You'll be getting at least another chapter this weekend at least. The next one is super long too (poor Bucky).
> 
> This chapter introduces perhaps my greatest Marvel interpretation to date: Namor. <3
> 
> The blaring J-pop song of the day is [RUIDO](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QHIa4GxHZnI) by YUI.


	7. The Sorrows of Young Bucky Barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How many of you are there?”
> 
> “Huh?”
> 
> “The Bunheads, how many are you?”
> 
> “Oh, well, apart from being Simonville’s strongest gang, we’re also the biggest. Right now there’s six of us.”
> 
> What a pathetic excuse for the holder of the title “the biggest”!
> 
> “And how many Simonville gangs are there?”
> 
> “We’re the only ones here, since it’s so small you know.”
> 
> So being the best, biggest and toughest were really useless titles all around.

_“If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning.”_

_–_ **Vincent van Gogh**

 

Thursday rolled around and I had no plans whatsoever to take Bucky’s advice to get to know people, even less to get people to know me. So I went to class alone, had lunch alone and returned to my locker alone, as had been my school strategy for years. Kneeling on the floor next to my locker, a looming shadow over me announced that that strategy would be interfered with from now on.

 

When the shadow didn’t move for more than half a minute, I tried to look up from the corner of my eye to see if I was blocking someone’s path. A huge girl, maybe the tallest one I had ever met, towered over me with a frown. I noticed her fists were clenched.

 

She narrowed her eyes when I looked up at her.

 

“You’re Steve,” she boomed and I admit that I almost jumped.

 

“Yes?” I answered the best I could and stood up slowly, backpack in front of me as a shield. Boy, it wasn’t my perspective that was deceiving me: she really must be over 6 feet tall. Her dark ruffled hair and tattoo sleeves didn’t reassure me that she was just a friendly classmate making chit-chat (Could you even get that many tattoos while still in high school?! How old was she?).

 

“I’m Sif,” she boomed yet again.

 

I didn’t have an answer to that, but as she seemed to be waiting for one, I quickly nodded.

 

“You’re Bucky’s friend.”

 

It took my everything to stop the instinctive “no” that was half-way off my tongue. Denying one of her statements seemed a bad idea, whichever statement it was. But I didn’t agree either and just looked down to the floor.

 

“So am I. So I’ll be looking out for you. The Bunheads always look out for their own.”

 

Aaah, I saw them now, the biker boots. Should have - _wait just one minute, their own? I don’t belong to you crazy ill-dressed people!_

 

“You really don’t have to–” I began nervously, eyes darting across the hall in search for any and all possible escape routes.

 

“Consider it done, friend,” she said and slammed a gigantic muscular hand on my tiny weak shoulder.

 

“And great garb by the way,” she said and smiled a delighted and still pretty evil looking smile. The hand that wasn’t grabbing me was holding the lapel of the leather vest she was wearing, no, sorry, pleather vest, which she had obviously gotten from Grandma via me and Bucky.

 

I nodded several times in a row, head basically bobbing up and down, until she removed her hand and stretched to her full height with more grace than I would have expected or could ever muster myself.

 

“I’ll see you around, Nevadan,” she boomed and strode past me in a single step.

 

I remained frozen on the spot until her loud marching had ended, and I darted a quick glance across my shoulder before I dared to move.

 

Navigating the way to my next class with my backpack still in front of me, I couldn’t help but write a message to Bucky, asking just who Sif was.

 

“From the gang, she’s a Viking,” was the typical response that I expected but didn’t want.

 

“She talked to me in school today,” I wrote, unsure how to phrase the feeling of utter dread the giantess had left with me.

 

“Ohh good! I told you you needed friends!”

 

I stopped in the doorway of a classroom and stared at the text.

 

 _“SO YOU SENT THE VIKING MAFIA AFTER ME!”_ I actually whispered out loud under my breath.

 

“She’s not in the mafia, she’s from Minnesota!” Bucky replied instantly, because I also texted that immediate response.

 

This message didn’t make me any wiser, and what did it matter that she was from Minnesota? That Midwestern craziness spread across multiple states? Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.  

 

And I did. Everywhere I went for the rest of the day, and the rest of the week, I always looked twice in all directions to see if the mighty Sif was around, ready to socialize, befriend or just “look out for me,” neither of which I wanted to happen in the slightest. The result of course was not only that I avoided people as usual, but that I also looked like a complete hypochondriac at the same time (I _was_ a complete hypochondriac at the same time. Just because Bucky claimed that the Viking mafia weren’t after me, didn’t mean they weren’t. In light of past experiences I was not taking chances with gang members of any sort. This should of course include Bucky, who despite being perfectly harmless I too did try to avoid, but with far less success than ever before in my life. Ah, the simpler times when the very real Tracksuit Mafia were the only ones I needed to worry about.)

 

“Any more gang members of yours that I need to watch out for in school?” I asked Bucky as he slid into my booth at Denny’s. I kept my focus on my sketch pad and didn’t look up.

 

“Besides Sif there’s only me and Skye who are still in high school, and we’re both at Simonville Public. Have you drank all of these?”

 

He was referring to the five cups on the table.

 

“No, only one. I took the rest from other tables.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Art.”

 

It was true. I dipped a brush in the remnants of a cup earl grey and looked over at Bucky momentarily.

 

“You don’t have to paint with real paint, you know.”

 

Bucky nodded, gazing at my pad. I’d picked up a leaflet at the Van Dyne Gallery at my last visit, saying that the Howling Commandos were coming to Iowa, for the Des Moines Arts Festival in June. It was an indie art exhibition that travelled around to different cities, accepting open applications. I’d had pieces accepted twice, once when it did a special at Art-Town in Reno and once in Portland, but I hadn’t been able to attend myself that time. Now when the time had come for a pop-up in Iowa, I figured it was destiny’s way of telling me to make an effort, despite my circumstances.

 

My idea so far had started out as watercolor ( _Aqua Sol_ was at the back of my mind still) but then I’d decided to branch out and try other materials. Ergo, I was now trying different types of Denny’s coffees and teas.

 

Scott came over, dumping a cappuccino cup for me and a menu for Bucky.

 

He pointed to the cup.

 

“Foam. For, you know. Beige.”

 

He put his hands at his sides and smiled wide at us both.

 

“What can I get you?”

 

Bucky ordered, and I kept painting in silence for a few minutes. A Walasse Ting feel was what I was going for, even though shades of brown was way too dull for Ting.

 

Seeing as how Bucky had never been silent this long in my company, I began to be a little worried. I stopped my brush and turned my full attention to him instead. He had his fingers laced around his glass of ice tea (must try that) and his chin leaning against the rim. He sat perfectly still with his eyes on… my painting? He didn’t seem to have noticed I had stopped.

 

“Bucky?”

 

“Hm?”

 

I waved my hand in front of him.

 

“Sorry, I was just watching you paint. Didn’t want to break your mood.”

 

He sat up straight and looked me in the eye.

 

“I’ve never seen any of your art before. It’s good! I’d love to see more sometime, if you’d be okay with it. It’s cool if you’re not, though.” He nodded and smiled in a way that was nothing if not reassuring. He was genuinely interested, huh.

 

Of course I was never showing him any of my art, ever.

 

“Thanks, it’s not that special.”

 

I put the pad down next to me to dry, and I saw his eyes darting to it.

 

“How many of you are there?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The Bunheads, how many are you?”

 

“Oh, well, apart from being Simonville’s strongest gang, we’re also the biggest. Right now there’s six of us.”

 

What a pathetic excuse for the holder of the title “the biggest”!

 

“And how many Simonville gangs are there?”

 

“We’re the only ones here, since it’s so small you know.”

 

So being the best, biggest and toughest were really useless titles all around.

 

“But there’s another one in Turrington, and a pair of small ones in Remsen I think… of course, a few bigger ones in the city too. Hey, don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about joining?”

 

“No. _No_ , Bucky, I have not.” I tried to say it as quickly as possible, but I couldn’t get the words out quick enough before the smile had spread across his face. The smile that made a hint of dimples appear in his cheeks and wrinkled his nose, the smile I always got when he talked about me joining the gang, or us hanging out together. It was a problem.

 

“I know. But if you ever do, I’ve already given you a pretty good introduction. I’ve told everyone about you.”

 

“I’m sure you have.” I felt both dread and curiosity at this. “And who is everyone?”

 

“Well,” Bucky began and leaned back. “You’ve met Sif. She’s our fight squad leader. If anybody picks on any of us, you tell Sif first and she will take care of it. Sif could never lose a fight, she’s got too much warrior in her.”

 

Someone should really tell Bucky that “Viking” was not a hereditary trait, they really should.

 

“Skye I’ve also told you about. She’s in the gang because of her sister. Her name’s Melinda, but everyone calls her May, which is their last name. You ever seen the sign in town for May’s Real Estate?”

 

I had a vague memory of it.

 

“That’s their parents’ company. It won “Most Successful Chinese-American Enterprise in Iowa” in 2006!”

 

“Good on them.”

 

“It is, right!”

 

“So Skye’s Chinese but she only listens to J-pop?”

 

“No, no, she listens to a lot of things, almost all Asian music, but she has a system. J-pop, that’s strictly for riding, okay? K-pop is what we listen to at the garage when we’re working because Mack likes it, and Mandarin songs is what they listen to at home. And she plays Thai pop in school because it’s educational.”

 

“It is?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“How?”

 

“I don’t know, I don’t speak Thai!”

 

“Okay. What’s May like?”

 

“She’s really cool. I mean, she always keeps a cool head. She never loses control and she’s definitely the strongest after Sif. She’s going to work at the family company one day so she’s in college now, an online one, but she still makes time to ride with us. She was the one who got Skye into bikes and so technically I have her to thank for a lot of stuff too…”

 

“Our second in command is Maria. She’s Natasha’s best friend since they were kids. They were in the same ballet troupe and after Nat quit, she kept on going. She was trying out for the Olympics and going pro…” Bucky’s voice faltered and his lip quivered slightly. “Then she busted her knee. Couldn’t dance again.”

 

He looked too traumatized to go on and for a second I had to try hard to suppress the urge to put my hand on his. I succeeded.

 

“So Maria came back, and cut all her hair off. And Nat did too, and then she named her gang The Bunheads for Maria’s sake. She taught her how to drive too.”

 

“At least they’re still together?” I said cautiously.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky said and smiled, eyes slightly shinier than usual. These girls’ friendship really mattered to him.

 

“And then there’s Nat?”

 

“Yeah, Nat, our leader. It really was her that got me into bikes from the beginning I should say. If not for her, I never would have gone to Mack or gotten a license. She’s… really special. She’s Russian, I told you that, right?”

 

“You did. So apart from you, it’s an all-girl gang?”

 

“All lesbian girl gang.”

 

Oh!

 

“Wait, I thought you said Clint was Natasha’s ex?”

 

“Yeah, Nat’s bisexual, but she identifies under the lesbian umbrella term.”

 

“I… You know a lot about this, huh?”

 

Bucky nodded once, face very serious.

 

“Gender studies is my best subject after sheet metal processing.”

 

_What kind of curriculum did they offer at Simonville Public?!_

 

Bucky bit his lip and looked off into the distance, contemplating something (it was a strange sight). His eyes eventually fell on my almost dry painting, and he turned towards me again.

 

“Hey, didn’t you say you went to Des Moines a while ago?”

 

“Yeah, I go there for art exhibitions and the like. Why?”

 

“Do you know Des Moines very well?”

 

“Uh, I’ve only been a few times, since I moved here but I guess I know my way around?”

 

“Have you heard of an art studio called Shield?”

 

What? What? What was _this?_ Bucky Barnes, asking me a real and valid question that didn’t make me groan? Bucky Barnes, having knowledge of art studios? Bucky Barnes, knowing an art studio in Des Moines that I hadn’t heard of? Oh no, there was the groaning.

 

I shook my head and told the truth.

 

“Never heard of it.”

 

The disappointment in Bucky’s face was evident (as far I could remember, it was the only time I had seen him disappointed).

 

“Was there a special artist that you wanted to see? Because I’m sure I can help you find them.”

 

Bucky shook his head.

 

“I don’t want to go look at art, I want to have some artwork done.”

 

This was getting more and more perplexing.

 

“Like a painting?”

 

“Yeah, but for my bike.”

 

Oh, now things were clearing up.

 

“The artist would paint it on paper first, and then they airbrush it on the bike… Mack is good at paint jobs, but he can’t do the picture the way I want it.”

 

“But the Shield studio can?”

 

“Yeah.” Bucky swallowed. “Natasha is… retiring from the gang and getting married. We’ll be having a send-off parade for her, and I wanted to give her a going away gift… but I also wanted to show her that I’ll never forget all that she’s done for me, you know? I owe her a lot.”

 

“Does it have to be art on your bike then? Wouldn’t be better with something she could take with her?”

 

“Nah, she’s moving states, says she doesn’t want more stuff to carry.”

 

He stared down into the table for a while, chewing his cheek.

 

“A send-off parade… that’s when you get decked up in your coolest clothes and then you ride together one last time, making a lot of noise… To let everyone know that The Bunheads, Natasha’s Bunheads, were here. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Natasha, so that’s when I want to show her that. A great send-off, that’s what I want to give her.”

 

“And where does the painting on the bike come into this?”

 

Bucky took a deep gulp of his ice tea, finishing it off. He wiped his mouth and started talking.

 

“Natasha’s been really good to me, more than she had to. If other people laughed at me for driving a scooter, she never would. She taught me how to fight for myself and to really care about bikes. I didn’t always, until high school I didn’t know anything about being a biker. The whole time up ‘til then, I don’t think I really cared that much about anything, I just couldn’t find anything that I really liked. We moved around a lot when I was small, because my parents were military you know, so I guess there wasn’t time. Then all my sisters came along, and they all found hobbies and clubs and were so excited about everything… I just didn’t feel it. When we came back to Simonville… I guess you could say I was a wimp. And everyone could tell that I was, so I didn’t fit in anywhere and these jerks in my class would always push me around. I wasn’t anybody, but I didn’t know who I was supposed to be at all.

 

I told myself things would be different when I got to high school, because I would get to stay in the same class for all of it, and everything changes in high school, right? It’s supposed to. Actually, I really wanted to go to Charles Floyd. It’s a good school. And all losers in my class were heading for Simonville Public, and I wanted rid of those. And then, in eighth grade, mom lost her job. I know they didn’t want me to worry, but I know my folks had big money troubles then, ‘cause veteran pensions aren’t great, are they? So I thought I should help out, getting a job… but the only thing that happened was that I missed a lot of school, and then my grades weren’t good enough for Charles Floyd.

 

Mom got a new job and things worked out, but not for me. I knew I was facing a full four years of being picked on and running errands for people so they’d leave me alone, and I wouldn’t find anyone to hang out with. I was really freaking depressed. And that’s when I met Natasha.

 

One night that summer, I snuck out of the house in the middle of the night. I just really wanted out of here, but I couldn’t cause there’s nowhere to go, is there? I didn’t really want to run away from home either, but I just couldn’t handle it anymore. So I took my bike, I mean my bicycle, and I pedaled out of town and onto the IA-60, like, I didn’t know it was the IA-60 then but I just thought: “Past the next cornfield, and the next one…” But I got a flat tire, and I didn’t know how to fix that. That was it really, my whole life: I try to take off, and I get a flat tire. I just started crying and it wouldn’t stop, I couldn’t fix that either. I was even more stuck than before. Eventually I began walking back, pushing my bike all the way back to Simonville, and a biker gang passed me. They were revving their engines and flashing their tail lights and I remember stopping to look at them driving zig zag across the road: they could go places, and they went there _together_. They also looked really cool, and I stood there in my pajamas with snot coming out of my nose.

 

Then I saw how one of the bikes were turning and coming back towards me, and I was scared at first that they’d pick on me too, or beat me up, but I guess I’d stopped caring at that point. Then the bike stopped and I saw it was a woman, and she got off and walked towards me. She took her helmet off and shook loose this really red hair and looked at me, really _looked_ at me. She asked me what happened, “Why are you out here crying all alone? Did some asshole do something to you? I swear I’ll kick their ass, just tell me who did it.” The way she was looking at me, she had such nice eyes and I knew I couldn’t lie to her, even if I didn’t want to tell her why I was crying. And that only made me cry even more.

 

She kept asking, “You feeling scared of something? Worry eating you up? Can’t handle anything anymore?” She looked at me and it was like if she saw straight through me. I just nodded and when I did, I could feel how everything just rushed over me and was sort of… gone. Like sharing it with someone made it all disappear. Natasha put her hand on my cheek and said, “Everybody’s got problems. Everybody’s got some place that hurts. You aren’t the only one, and you aren’t alone. So cry as much as you want, there’s nothing to be ashamed about.” And then she goes, “But you can’t let someone use it against you. Sometimes if people feel sorry for you, they end up hurting you with it. So save the tears for people you really trust, and who are really worth it. And cry your heart out, but for every tear you shed, grow that much stronger.”

 

Bucky stopped his tale there, and leaned his head back. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I did see his Adam's apple quivering. The polite thing was to pretend I didn’t see that either, and stay silent, keep listening. It seemed Bucky was reliving that night when telling the story.

 

He abruptly began again, eyes still on the ceiling.

 

“She didn’t say anything after that, just got back up on her bike and drove off. It was a Harley Davidson Street 750 in matte black and red, and she had a long tail on it and it said Bunheads on it in Russian, of course I didn’t know that it said that then but it looked really great. I watched Natasha drive away until I couldn’t see her anymore and that’s when I decided: starting from when I got home, I was going to become a strong person like Natasha was. I started crying again walking back, but I stopped when I got to the house and I told myself “You’re that much stronger now, so act like it.”

 

On the first day of school I showed up dressed like, well, like I’m dressed now, and that’s really different from how I was before. And of course, the place was packed with jerks from middle school, and they told everyone what a fucking loser I was before. So after third period, I get called out to the track field and get the crap beaten out of me by five guys. They kept kicking me and said that if I ever tried to pose like a cool kid again, they’d _really_ beat me up. I wore the same outfit to school the next day, and they snuffed out a cigarette on my arm. And I went back the third day, and they hit me with a softball bat.”

 

Bucky’s eyes were dry again now and he recounted the vicious beatings he took in a perfectly monotone voice, sounding very casual about it. I noticed I was clenching my hands to the point of cramping, and tried to relax them. Didn’t work very well.

 

“But you know, if you’ve hurt your body, you can go to the hospital and have it treated, have them patch it up until you’re almost as good as new. But if you’ve hurt your soul, there isn’t a single doctor that can help you, at least not if you don’t start by treating it yourself. To me, I thought of those beatings as… a sort of punishment for being such a wuss before, for not standing up for myself or fighting for anything. And I had to start doing that. On the fourth day, I went to the assholes before they came for me, and I challenged their leader to a fight.”

 

I closed my eyes and held my breath. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. _No_.

 

“And that’s when I realized, “Shit, I’ve never been in a fight my whole life! I know squat about this!”” Bucky laughed, an almost hollow laugh.

 

“This jerk’s glaring at me, challenging me to make the first move because I called the fight, yeah? He’s looking at me like he’s gonna psych me out of it, give up before I even started. Then he and his goons would just have kicked my ass anyway! So I remembered hearing my mom telling my sister how to use self-defense if some creep ever came up to them – and I crouched down like she told them to. And I guess it looked fucking real, cause the guy backs up a bit! So I decided to just go for it, and jumped forward shouting, and it really threw him off guard I guess because for a split second, he closes his eyes! I knew I wouldn’t get another chance like that so I grab his head and pull it down, and then just knee him in the face, without ever really meaning to! He goes down on the ground and he sits there with blood all over, and I think he was more surprised than in pain, but his underlings or whatever are all freaking out and they step in and yelling about “taking it easy” – as if they hadn’t done worse to me before!

 

I’d actually won. The first time I ever fought, and I won. So I sit down next to this jerk – his name’s Brock, he even sounds like an asshole with just the name – all silent while the others are still screaming like babies, and I say to him, “If you ever try to pose as a bully again, I’ll really beat you up. And if you ever try to mess with me again, you’ll be sorry for this.””

 

Bucky finished, head bobbing slightly as if he was nodding. We sat in silence for a few moments and like many times before, but for totally different reasons, I found myself lost for words.

 

“And then… people at school started respecting you, and you joined Natasha’s gang,” I said carefully, trying to urge him on. I both wanted and not wanted to hear the rest of the tale.

 

“Well, more or less. I nagged my parents into letting me get a bike, and I guess they did some asking around because one day they drove me out to Mackenzie Motors in Turrington to get one. Skye was there, she’d just started working, and she recognized me from school. The next day, she and May approached me because they’d heard about my fight. Skye agreed to teach me about bikes, and put in a good word with Mack for me, and May said I needed to learn how to fight properly. I didn’t even know then that they rode with Natasha, I was just stoked to be making any friends! But they were in The Bunheads, and once I learned how to drive they introduced me for real and I joined.”

 

A faint little smile played along Bucky’s lips, and I could feel my face doing the same. I felt an urge to grin with my whole face, even though it felt a little bit inappropriate.

 

“So you see, if the fighting’s what you got an issue with, then we can teach you! Look at me, I sure didn’t know what I hell I was doing before I met May,” Bucky said and raised his eyebrows.

 

It took me a second to adjust to his sudden change in topic, but figured he was back to me not joining the gang. I sighed.

 

“I don’t want to fight anyone.” It felt a bit cheaper than usual to say that, though. “But I don’t like bullies, whoever they are. So good on you for fighting back.”

 

Bucky lowered his eyes, really smiling now.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered, like I had given him the biggest compliment ever. (Which, when I thought about it, I probably… had.)

 

I shook my head, and remembered how we got onto the topic of Bucky’s adolescent trials and tribulations.

 

“What you’re saying is that Natasha has been really important to you, that she more or less shaped you into who you are and got you started on this path, and as such you really admire her and owe her a lot, so now when she’s leaving you want to do something really special to express all that to her?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“And the best way to do that is through an airbrush painting on your bike?”

 

Bucky squirmed a little, like bracing himself for a lengthy explanation, not like he was uncomfortable.

 

“It’s like I told you, a bike is like your life, and if I want to show Nat what an impact she’s had on my life… then my bike is the best way to do it. The only way, if you’re a true biker.”

 

“What kind of painting do you want?”

 

“I want it to say “Thank you, Natasha” in Russian.”

 

“What?”

 

“What?”

 

“But that’s not even a painting. That’s just words – do you mean like typography?”

 

“Well, you can make words look like a painting! Or add something, I don’t know.”

 

“But isn’t that a little… uncool? It doesn’t sound like a very tough biker thing to do. Shouldn’t there be like… a wild animal or some weapon or something frightening?”

 

I didn’t know what I was talking about. Bucky frowned and looked at me funny.

 

“We’re not criminals who go around beating people up for fun, why would I wanna scare people with my bike?”

 

Oh, I really didn’t know what I was talking about. I shrugged, and Bucky went on:

 

“Anyway, I don’t care if it’s uncool or not fancy looking, and I don’t care if it makes people laugh at my bike either. They might as well be laughing at me then, but I’m not ashamed of owing Natasha. ‘Cause this is it, she’s leaving, and I got to thank her properly before we send her off, it’s gotta come from the heart. If you love someone, it’s gotta be despite what people might think of it, right. And yeah, you’ve got a point that bikers act tough and mean, but there are times when you’ve got to forget about being cool and just do what’s right, you know?”

 

I thought about what Bucky said, and I thought about how I’d never had to do something right like that, and it seemed clear that I couldn’t argue, not just because what he said made sense but because I honestly had zero experience of the subject.

 

“That’s why I want this paint job done by the Shield studio, because they are really good, biker legends. Everybody knows _of_ it, but no one really knows… it, you know? No one knows where it is, or how to get in touch with them, and they only help you out if they think you deserve it. You’ve got to prove yourself. And the guy who leads it, or girl, I don’t know, they’re a real master, an artist, they only do these kinds of paintings but they don’t take on any job. They have to like you, and approve of you, or no one in the whole studio will help you out. But if they do like you, they work incredibly fast and incredibly good, the work is stunning and it never fades. Last I heard, Shield was in Des Moines, and they mightn’t be anymore but I do know I want to try and get them to do this, for Natasha.”

 

“Do you know anyone who has their work on their bike?”

 

“What? Of course not, who would _that_ be? It’s gotta be a really special person if Shield would do it…”

 

But that would mean that you think that you’re that special person…

 

“I mean, have you ever seen any of their work yourself?” I asked.

 

“Nah, but then I’ve never seen a biker outside of here, right?”

 

“Have they been around long?”

 

“Yeah, they’re legendary.”

 

“Isn’t there a small possibility then that the reason you haven’t ever seen any of their work, even if they’re as close as Des Moines, is that the studio isn’t there anymore? That Shield and their artists are gone?”

 

You could have captured the fleeting moment of heartbreak in Bucky’s eyes in a painting if you had real skill, but the quick turnaround as he pushed the possibility of defeat out of his mind would have demanded even more skill.

 

“Don’t say that, okay?!” he said loudly. “Everyone knows that people who’ve had work done by Shield are a special group, and they meet up in Sturgis every year. It’s definitely legit. Maybe they’ve moved from Des Moines but they are definitely not gone!”

 

Personally, I wouldn’t trust a “special group” of bikers, and I didn’t know where or what this “Sturgis” was. The doubt that was still in my mind must have been evident on my face, because Bucky gave me another example of a Shield customer.

 

“I know one person who definitely has their work on their bike. She’s a biker boss that united all the girl gangs in Indiana some years ago, but she’s retired from biking now. She had Shield work on her bike, and she still goes riding sometimes, alone, and someone will see her flash by, always in a different place… the bike’s silver painted, like robotics, and it’s got a red star on it.”

 

“What, like your coat sleeve?”

 

“Yeah, like that! I made that based on her bike.”

 

“Which you’ve never even seen.”

 

“Yeah, but everyone knows what it looks like.”

 

“What’s her name?”

 

“No biker knows her real name, but she’s called the Winter Biker. And these days a lot of people say she doesn’t exist, but I know she does, I’m sure of it.”

 

What a stupid, stupid and _absolutely made up_ name, for a probably made up character. And even if she did by some chance exist, how did that matter in Bucky’s quest in finding Shield?

 

“So will you?” he asked, leaning forward and looking eager.

 

“So will I what?”

 

“Will you take me with you to Des Moines next time and help me find it, what else?”

 

After all this time, this long and intricate tale of Bucky’s depression, hardship and eventual comeback and rescue by Natasha, the place where this long road had taken us was that Bucky wanted company to Des Moines. Shorter books had been written for greater purposes.

 

“Sure,” I said and shrugged. “But I’m not spending too much time helping you search fruitlessly for a place that most likely doesn’t exist.”

 

“Steve, what kind of a friend are you supposed to be?” Bucky asked, shaking his head but also smiling.

 

“No kind!” I defended myself.

 

I wasn’t his friend. Bucky had never straight out said so before either. But I wasn’t his friend.

 

“The bad kind. But hey, I can teach you. It’s not like I knew anything about friendship before I met Skye and May, either.”

 

Bucky got up to go pay Scott at the counter, and I started putting my forgotten brushes and sketchpad away. True, I did not know much about friendship but I certainly didn’t want, and wasn’t going to, learn anything about it from Bucky Barnes, was I?

  
Not before he learned to make his own mixtapes anyway; today’s J-tune was particularly garish.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't a Stucky fic without misery and tragic background stories, right? Poor lil Buck. <3
> 
>  
> 
> The particularly garish J-tune is [Koufukuron (Etsuraku hen)](https://open.spotify.com/track/3D3fWwRnuco9yvnVn9Aw7j) by Shiina Ringo. (Spotify link)


	8. American Moronic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I assume many of my dear readers will be feeling rather sore still after young Barnes’ tale from last time we met, understandably so. In life there are many different kinds of hardship, and I do freely admit that what happened to me shortly after was nowhere near his experiences. Yet still a valid trauma, I should think.
> 
> Picture day had come to Charles Floyd.

_ “'I think that we all, each one of us, we all have to  _ earn  _ our future,' she said slowly. 'I think the future is like anything else that's important. It has to be earned. If we don't  _ earn  _ it, we don't have a future at all. And if we don't earn it, if we don't deserve it, we have to live in the present, more or less forever. Or worse, we have to live in the past. I think that's probably what love is – a way of earning the future.'”  _

**– _Shantaram_ , Gregory David Roberts**

I assume many of my dear readers will be feeling rather sore still after young Barnes’ tale from last time we met, understandably so. In life there are many different kinds of hardship, and I do freely admit that what happened to me shortly after was nowhere near his experiences. Yet still a valid trauma, I should think.

 

Picture day had come to Charles Floyd.

 

It had been announced a week in advance, and I’d tried to think of an excuse to miss it, and then I could worry about an excuse to liberate me from retake day later. The announcement also went out to all legal guardians, and my mother was excited from the moment she got wind of it. 

 

In the face of parental disappointment, I went to school that day, bitterly accepting it as my fate to be forever enshrined in the yearbook archives of Charles Floyd HS, Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207. We all have our crosses to bear.

 

The photos would be taken outside, and I was scheduled to have mine taken at 2 PM. The senior class had just finished before us, and I ducked behind a girl from the field hockey team to avoid being seen by Sif. Due to being occupied with this, I didn’t become aware of the photograph’s backdrop until it was my turn.

 

On the football field, a haystack had been built. Bales of hay had been stacked together and with horror, and an ounce of fascination, I watched Rambeau, Monica have her picture taken before me, sitting on a hay bale, leaning against another hay bale, smiling wide with her perfect teeth, big hair and lean field hockey trained muscles. 

 

There is pastiche, and then there is parody, and there is whatever was going on right there and then: a self-parody taken to such heights it had stopped being parody altogether and instead had become tradition. I would be forever enshrined in the yearbook archives of Charles Floyd sitting on a haystack, not only once, but twice, seeing as how I was most likely not getting out of having my senior picture taken. Where was  _ my  _ Russian savior on a motorbike coming to save me from myself?

 

With something that could only be described as internal screaming, I (with some difficulty) climbed atop the haystack, clenching my jaw and holding my breath. Did I not mention my severe hay fever? Gosh, living in the farmlands of Iowa it must have slipped my mind… After several nagging attempts to get me to smile, the photographer let me go and I returned to the school buildings which were slightly less prone to trigger allergy reactions. Too caught up in my self-misery, I bumped into Sif in the hallway, who raised a hand for a high five calling “Your first year book picture at Charles Floyd!” (What other choice than returning it did I have?)

Approaching home that day, still sneezing, I saw Bucky’s bike parked out front and sure enough, found him sitting on my porch and struggling with his algebra homework. Academically speaking, Bucky was not stupid at all, just performing poorly in some subjects. He showed all the symptoms of someone who was rather bright but had at some point for some reason or another, fallen behind and not been given the right assistance to get back in the game. But he didn’t stop trying.

 

“Hi. Again,” I muttered, hardly bothering to sound hostile at all. 

 

“Hey!” Bucky finished writing something and made a move as to get up, but I’d sunk down on the chair next to him and when he noticed, he remained seated. 

 

“Good day in school?”

 

“Dismal. Yearbook photos.”

 

“But that’s always fun!”

 

“I have hay fever.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“And a haystack – really?”

 

“Not cool?”

 

“Have you heard of anything less cool?”

 

“Well, we are in Iowa.”

 

“You needn’t remind me.”

 

Bucky tapped his pencil against his leg.

 

“So hey,” he said in a chirpy tone. “Have you thought anymore about Des Moines?”

 

“What’s there to think about?”

 

“If we’re going.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t think I had a choice. When are we going?”

 

“I asked you!”

 

“Not technically, no. Next weekend?”

 

The less hay I had to see this month, the better.

 

“Hm,” Bucky frowned. “I don’t know if I can get the money that quick. But the send-off’s coming up soon…”

 

“How much does Shield charge? Theoretically, since they only theoretically exist.”

 

Bucky groaned, which was enough for an answer.

 

I shrugged.

 

“Could you ask Mack for an early paycheck?”

 

“Yeah, I already did that, and I think he gave me some extra tips too, but it’s not enough.”

 

“Well then. Any rich relatives you could ask?” 

 

Bucky’s face was stuck somewhere between “alarmed” and “perplexed.”

 

“I hate borrowing money from family, makes me feel like I’m taking advantage or freeloading.”

 

“So you do have rich relatives?”

 

His statement hadn’t said anything to the contrary.

 

Bucky shifted in his seat.

 

“My grandparents in Karachi are pretty well to do, I guess. My aunt’s the one who’s bringing in the real dough though, you should see the pictures of her house… but like I said, I don’t want to borrow from them.”

 

“Freeload of them, then. That’s what rich family is for, right? Why would you leave your family with student debt and mortgages if you could pay it for them, huh? That would be taking advantage, if you ask me.”

 

This was a theoretical theory though, since I didn’t have any rich relatives or was one myself.

 

Bucky shook his head and looked at me, bemused.

 

“Where did you get that idea from? Maybe if I was asking for them to pay my debts, but this is for painting my bike, and it’s their money, so they don’t have to pay anything for me with it. You know, I’ve been wondering this ever since I met you, but where did you get this weird view of life, anyway?”

 

“From art.”

It was true, wasn’t it? And my world view certainly wasn’t weirder than yours, thanks for asking.

 

Bucky snorted.

 

“I thought you said you didn’t go to art school.”

 

“I didn’t say that, and I didn’t go. I learned myself, and you can learn a lot about art that way. But when I started enjoying art, and creating art, I realized that to appreciate it properly, to truly do it justice, I had to improve myself and my view of life. Because if you are an artist without having an artistic spirit, the art won’t speak to you. At all.”

 

“Yeah… like even if you dress up like one, if you don’t act like a biker or can’t drive very well, everyone will spot you for a fake immediately,” Bucky commented in a surprisingly spot-on observation. 

 

“Yes. In order to hold my own against the art that I love so much, I thought long and hard about what it really means to be an artist. But of course that is not something you can figure out by yourself, apart from everything else. It has to come from within art. That’s what helped me.”

 

I paused, feeling like my story was steering into deep waters, dangerously close to the things Bucky had talked about last time we met at Denny’s.

 

“I have a lot of doubts about things. I get scared and depressed about the state of things and the world, like we all do. When I don’t know what to do, art speaks to me, in a way that makes better sense than most else. The advice is always so simple, logical and practical. Mostly it’s comforting I think, that something bigger is out there and that I can reach it though art, whenever I wish for it. Other people usually refer to that as being self-important, or manic, but I’ve pledged myself to live as an artist and the word of art is law to me.”

 

“Art talks to you, then?”

 

“The term is “speak,” but yes, it does, in several ways. Art is supposed to, sometimes you need to learn to listen differently. And when you create art yourself, the trick is to learn how to speak differently. At times, I can’t pull a certain technique or medium, or the picture won’t speak back to me what I try to make it say, and at those times, what the art is saying to me can roughly be translated as “You are not ready for me yet. Return to this when you have more strength of character.” 

 

“Hmm. I think I know how you mean. Let’s say I had a license for a real bike, and Mack offered me a really good deal on a model I’ve always wanted, let’s say… a Honda CB400F. Would I take it? Probably not, because I’m not worthy of that yet. That is a really good bike, and you have to earn your right to ride it, and I don’t think I’m at that biker level yet. Sif is really keen on being worthy too, she hasn’t bought her dream bike yet even though I know she has the money for it and it’s in Mack’s shop, waiting for her. Maybe after she graduates she will get it, she says.”

 

“Exactly. If you love something you have to earn the right to love it, and knowing your own worth is how you show respect for the things you love.”

 

“See! You and Sif are totally alike! I knew it was a good thing I introduced you. You get along great.”

 

“We do not.”

 

“Well, you’re wrong, but anyway.” Bucky clasped his hands together. “About the painting, I want to pay for it with money I earned myself. It has to come from work, my own work. Blood, sweat and tears – that’s what I have to put down to be worthy of Natasha.”

 

“I think she thought you worthy enough without the blood and the sweat back when she found you crying on that highway.”

 

“You can’t make money from being sad.”

 

“You can if you use it to convince your rich aunt to giving you the cash.”

 

“Someone else’s money isn’t going to show my gratitude to Natasha, okay? Wait, I think I got it. We can go to the arcade!”

 

“What for?”

 

“I can  _ win _ money for the paint job there! They have a small casino section!”

 

Bucky was excited enough to have stood up, meanwhile I was doubting if gambling was ever the equivalent of blood, sweat and tears. Tears, perhaps, but the common denominator between all gambling halls across America and the world was crippling apathy and joylessness. 

 

“If you expect me to be good at gambling because I am from Nevada, then I am happy to disappoint,” I said and remained seated, with zero intention to follow Bucky, but to go inside and finish  _ my _ algebra homework.

 

“You don’t have to play, I just said I had to earn it myself, didn’t I?”

 

Did gambling count as honest labor to you then, Bucky? Why was there always such a deep chasm between our world views? 

 

“Come on, Steve, we’re going.”

 

“But why do I have to go? Isn’t this a solitary mission?”

 

“‘Cause you’re my freaking friend, and no, it isn’t.”

 

_ No, I’m not _ – but I could stress those o’s as much as I wanted, Bucky’s will wasn’t wavering. 

 

He strode off the porch towards his bike, and opened the compartment below the seat.

 

“So since art is obviously to you what biking is to me, do you have a Natasha? I mean, not literally, but is there a person who introduced you to it?” He called back to me, pulling out an extra helmet.

 

“Not quite. I can’t even remember when I started liking it – every kid draws, right? It grew from there. But I guess… I have a favorite artist, who means a lot to me,” I said with more enthusiasm than I wanted to let on.

 

Ugh, it felt almost disrespectful to speak about Sir Erskine in such a simple way. “Means a lot to me” – work on your vocabulary, Steve!

 

“Who is it?”

 

“His name is Abraham Erskine. There’s a painting of his in Des Moines.”

 

“Oh! You have to show me!”

 

The thought of Bucky’s interpretation of  _ Aqua Sol _ was both highly comical and highly vary – absolutely everything was possible.

 

“Fine. But I thought we weren’t going until you found the money?”

 

“Yeah, but I’m going to find it now. Come on, let’s go!”

 

I stared hopelessly at him. I wasn’t getting out if this, was I? I rose from my comfortable place in Grandma’s wicker chair, grabbed both my own backpack and Bucky’s and placed them inside the door, then walked slowly towards the bike, where Bucky was standing holding out a helmet for me. 

  
Not only was he dragging me to a gambling establishment, he was making me ride his bike with him again. If last time that happened was any indication of today’s voyage, the loudest volume setting on Bucky’s boombox couldn’t block out the erratic and disturbing thoughts I’d be having.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What we have learned from this chapter is the following: 1) Steve is such a lil shit and 2) “You can’t make money from being sad.” belongs on an embroidered pillow. Grandma Fury should get right on that.


	9. The Artist and Margarita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Bucky pulled up outside the Simonville arcade, it was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on it or its neon sign. It was, like everything else here seemed to be, bright orange and spelled out “Strange’s Simonville Saloon.” What a doofus name, and what a pathetic excuse for an alliteration! I could feel my stomach churning and mouth going dry. I couldn’t believe I was entering a place like this. It was unavoidable when in Reno, but I did try very hard, and in Iowa I had found asylum from them. Yet here I was. 
> 
> The things we do for, well, stupidity.

_ “I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me, too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.”  _

_ –  _ **Frida Kahlo**

  
  
When Bucky pulled up outside the Simonville arcade, it was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on it or its neon sign. It was, like everything else here seemed to be, bright orange and spelled out “Strange’s Simonville Saloon.” What a doofus name, and what a pathetic excuse for an alliteration! I could feel my stomach churning and mouth going dry. I couldn’t believe I was entering a place like this. It was unavoidable when in Reno, but I did try very hard, and in Iowa I had found asylum from them. Yet here I was. 

The things we do for, well, stupidity.

Bucky walked confidently right in through the automatic doors, and I saw no choice but to follow him. It was true they offered a mix between kid-friendly arcade type of games like flipper tables and Dance Dance Revolution machines, and the more adult and legally regulated card tables and slot machines. They were not divided into sections as I had been led to believe however, and instead stood juggled and cramped together. Boy, was the legality of this place strange indeed.

The slot machines were placed in even rows at the very front, meaning you had to pass through them to get to the rest of the place. Bucky chose the row in the middle (there were seven lanes – quite an impressive amount of machines) and walked almost to the end of it, where he abruptly turned and put his hand on a chair.

“This one,” he said to nobody in particular and took off his jacket to hang it across the chair. He then continued walking into the arcade and I followed close behind, not wanting to spend a second alone in this place. A pair of young and loud girls were playing a game of air hockey and two men with bent backs were crouched over a game of poker in silence, providing a stark contrast: a happy date with screams and laughter and the solemnity of a pair of men heading for nothing but further unhappiness. 

Bucky had stopped at a machine set against a wall in the corner and when I reached him, I saw it was an exchange machine.

“The slots in here are pretty old, and low denomination. That means you put in coins,” Bucky explained over his shoulder, while the machine was spitting out quarters. He grabbed a soda cup from a stack on top of the machine, and shuffled his gaming coins inside. 

“How much did you change?” I asked as we walked back to his chosen slot.

“30 bucks,” he said nonchalantly, but I knew that he felt more nervous about losing that much than he let on. After all, that would be 30 dollars less to pay the real-or-not-real Shield studio.

Bucky sat down and put his first few coins in. There was a lever on the right side of the machine, but apparently only for nostalgic decorative purposes, because he pressed a big button on the front to start playing. A multitude of pictures in flashing gnarly colors started spinning, and I couldn’t focus on any of them. Bucky kept pressing the button, and putting in new coins, and it soon came to me that if I didn’t move I would be stuck standing there amidst the miasma of misery that slot machines let out. 

I shivered but didn’t say anything, yet Bucky still seemed to notice that I seemed restless, because he leaned backwards and said:

“All machines in here are computerized these days, not just the slots. Every day, management programs them: which will win and which will not, basically. Depending on which row, which day, what model it is, how many people have played it in the last couple of days. All you have to do it figure out which machine is meant to do which, and you’re good to go. Otherwise you’ll just end up losing everything.”

“Beating the system.”

“Yeah.”

“And you can supposedly do that?” I eyed Bucky with a raised eyebrow. This was a very common belief of course, but I still hadn’t thought him to be at quite such a low level of intelligence…

“All you have to do is be able to read the data. Look in the corner over there,” Bucky said and pointed to the top of the screen.

“Bucky, that’s a  _ clock _ .”

“No! Next to the clock, dummy.”

He tapped his finger on the machine now.

Next to the numbers that told the time (5.17 PM) it said “Machine number” followed by seven digits.

“These aren’t real machine serial numbers…?” I asked doubtfully.

“Nope. Think about it, why would those be on the screen and not on a sticker on the actual machine? Or engraved? You’d need the serial number if a machine broke down, and when it’s broken down, you can’t see the screen, can you? They say it’s the serial number to hide what it really is, to hide it in plain sight…” 

Bucky turned around for a moment, smiling devilishly. 

“But we know better. What the number really means is how many spins this machine has done since its last jackpot, and this one’s getting ready to blow soon.”

I didn’t think that “blow” was the right sound effect nor the right verb for winning a jackpot, but I didn’t argue. I had kept my knowledge of any type of gambling to a minimum by choice, and I was not going to deter from that policy any more than I had to. 

Still, standing and doing nothing while Bucky sat and also did nothing was making me jittery, and more uncomfortable than I already was. I stared at Bucky’s quickly diminishing coins and put my hand in my pocket.

“Hey,” I said, looking down the aisle. “I think I’ll take a little walk.”

“Okay, I’ll be here,” Bucky answered, thankfully not sounding dead inside (yet).

I moved down the row of machines and turned in to the next one, trying to find out if any of the other machines were any quieter per chance. I happened to have two dollars’ worth of quarters on me and like many times since I had moved to Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207, I found myself whispering the phrase “anthropological study” to myself. 

I climbed the high chair and put the coins into a machine I chose randomly, then tried to see if the decorative yet unfathomably ugly lever was really devoid of purpose, and found that it wasn’t. On the screen, animated rolls started spinning.

And then they weren’t spinning anymore. I mean, everything was moving, and blinking, and flashing, and a multitudes of sounds, bells and jingles seemed to go off at the same time. I instinctively leaned back from the machine and put my hands in the air,  _ I _ was certainly not the cause for this! I did the only thing I could think of.

“Bucky! Bucky, come over here, something’s wrong!”

“Huh?” I heard Bucky call back to me over all the noise.

“There’s something wrong with the machine!” I called, louder this time, but it turned out that the increase in volume wasn’t necessary; Bucky had come running straight over.

“Nothing’s wrong!” he exclaimed. “You hit the jackpot!”

“What? But I didn’t do anything?”

“You put money in it?”

“Yeah, a dollar, so a jackpot couldn’t possibly happen…”

“Wow, on your first spin?! Damn, being from Nevada  _ does _ mean you’re good at this…”

“I didn’t hit a jackpot!”

Bucky had been staring at the machine in delighted awe, and now he turned to me with a slightly annoyed I-can’t-believe-you look on his face.

“What else do you call it when the money comes pouring out?”

He was pointing to something below the screen and when I looked down I saw that money was indeed pouring out of it, a flow on coins like on TV. 

(Let me take a moment to further instill in you, dear, sensible reader, that despite having avoided casinos as much as I could growing up, I had still grown up within Reno, and a slot machine jackpot was still such an unbelievable novelty to me that I didn’t recognize one when it happened. Keep that in mind if you ever take to gambling.)

“Wait here,” Bucky said and ran off, leaving me with my metal waterfall. He was back shortly after with more soda cups, and began filling them with coins. A clerk showed up at the end of the aisle, but Bucky waved to her as if to say that she wasn’t needed.

“Congratulations,” she said with a certainly practiced smile and took a pad from her belt to make a note. (Probably to gather statistics, which would be used for sinister purposes according to Bucky.)

My machine had at last fallen silent, and stopped spitting out money. Feeling slightly more at ease, I slid off the chair and bent down next to Bucky to help shuffle coins.

“That was amazing!” he said, beaming at me, as if I had committed some great feat.

“I didn’t do anything,” I repeated. 

“You won, that’s what you did! You were totally lying when you said you weren’t good at this.”

“I certainly was not! I’ve never played before!”

“You did something right.”

Bucky dropped the last coins into the cups slowly, listening to the clinking sound and smiling even wider.

“Whatever it was.”

“You sure did something,” a raspy voice said behind us.

We turned around where we sat and looked up to find a different clerk standing before us. Up close, the uniforms were distinctively shabby. Black pants in some kind of ill-fated mixing of polyester and shiny nylon, with a matching vest over a strikingly purple t-shirt. To boot, this clerk had a three day beard and hair that had not been tended to for at least the same amount of time.

Oh. It was Clint.

“What do you want, Barton?” Bucky tried to growl, but it came out sounding more like a hiss. I noticed he’d put his hands over the soda cups, protectively.

“I want to know what kind of scam you two losers are trying to pull here, and then I want to watch the look on your face as I take all that money away.”

He smiled smugly, as if he’d caught us red-handed taking the money out of a safe and not off a dirty arcade floor.

“We didn’t do anything  _ illegal _ ,” Bucky protested, apparently too upset to care about altering his voice. He stood up and crossed his arms.

“Maybe you didn’t, but your little friend certainly did. A nice sidekick you got yourself there, Barnes,” Clint snickered.

“He won that money, fair and square,” Bucky stated slowly.

I nodded in agreement. Up until this moment I’d had trouble believing that myself but I did know these two things: One, I had not cheated in any way, and two, I was not Bucky’s sidekick. Ergo, I won that money fair and square. I too stood up.

“I put a dollar in and pressed the start button, the machine did the rest,” I said slowly, contemplating what level of authority Clint actually had. I was telling the truth of course, but what could the repercussions of this be? Would we be walking out of here losing other things than just the cups of coins?

“You’re trying to tell me you won on the first spin?” Clint let out a cringe worthy  _ ha!  _ “Gotta work on your hack as well as your excuses, kid.”

“What hack?” Bucky demanded. “He just said he didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Hack, some kind of spy device, whatever he used he used something to make the machine hit that jackpot! No way it could’ve happened by playing straight!”

By Kafka, what was happening to me? Was this going to be the start of my juvenile criminal career? See, this is what even attempting gambling does to innocent people.

“Is this  _ blanco _ here bothering you?” a sharp voice behind me asked. I turned.

 

A woman in her twenties stood leaning against the slot machine at the end of the row, her legs crossed. She wore a 50’s inspired outfit with high waist capri pants, a halterneck top and leather jacket. As Clint kept arguing with Bucky, she stretched her back and walked, no, more like slid across the floor. At her full height, including the open toe pumps on her feet, she towered over all of us. 

 

Her red lips were drawn in a straight line, the rest of her expression tense and immobile. Her eyes were dark in color with light specks of amber in them, and her skin looked like a blend of dark bronze and rose gold. Up close I could see she had tattoos of rose thorns climbing up her neck. All in all, she was soaring miles above anyone else I had ever encountered  _ – _ not just in Iowa but in Nevada and elsewhere. I had never seen anyone with such a characteristic appearance, and no one who could carry herself that well either. Of course her most striking feature was her hair: black and coiffed up rockabilly style at the top of her head, and extending far out. Even though it is a tacky and unoriginal (not to mention inexcusable) way to describe a woman as looking like a unicorn – she actually did.

 

“ _ I said _ , is this  _ blanco _ disturbing you, gentlemen?”

 

She tilted her head and looked at me, then at Bucky who had now turned towards her. Clint stood with his mouth slightly open.

 

“Yes,” I heard myself whisper.

 

She nodded once, raised her chin and put her hands in her pockets.

 

“What seems to be the problem, pops?” she asked, popping her P’s.

 

Clint’s mouth opened and closed a few times.

 

“They’re cheating,” he mustered.

 

A well-drawn eyebrow shot up.

 

“Cheating? “Winning” is the proper English term.”

 

“They hit the jackpot on the first spin. They’ve obviously hacked the machine!”

 

The eyebrow stayed up.

 

“Not while I’ve been here. And I checked in long before these boys showed up.”

 

“Just cause you didn’t see it didn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

 

“ _ Chico _ , nothing happens here without me seeing it, alright? But just in case, maybe your little surveillance cameras caught something that I missed?” 

 

She pointed a finger to the ceiling, and we all turned our heads up and spotted the cameras evenly spaced out above us.

 

Clint opened and closed his mouth again.

 

“They, um…”

 

“They um what now? Speak clearly.”

 

Clint looked at her sullenly.

 

“They’re out of order.”

 

“Really now. I could have told you that months ago.” 

 

The unicorn woman smiled and I felt my whole stomach turning to knots, but with a different type of nervousness than before. 

 

Slowly, enunciating every single word, she asked:

 

“May I see your manager, please?”

 

Clint backed several steps without changing his facial expression, then turned and shuffled away.

 

Bucky stared after him for a while before turning to our savior. Naturally, his first course of action was to stretch out his hand.

 

“Thanks for standing up for us,” he said with the low voice he used when trying to sound serious. “We really didn’t do anything, Clint’s just an ass.”

 

The woman took his offered hand, her darker than his.

 

“He’s too stupid for that, it would be an insult to asses,” she said curtly, and turned her head slightly towards me and blinked. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him.”

 

As she spoke, Clint made his way towards us again, this time with another man in tow. The manager wore the same disturbing polyester uniform, only with a crumbled jacket on top. His beard was if possible even worse than Clint’s; it looked like it had been grown elsewhere and then glued on. He smacked his lips and looked at the three of us like we had interrupted something important.

 

“What’s the disturbance here?” he barked, spit flying. (Poor Bucky.)

 

“Your employee Mr. Barton here was harassing these two customers, sir,” the woman said with the kind of confidence I doubt even Grandma could put on. “I had to step in.”

 

“What?! They were  _ cheating _ and I  _ caught _ them–” Clint complained, waving his hands and  _ also _ spitting now. (Must remember to give Bucky some sanitizer later, I thought to myself.)

 

“Those are not correct synonyms to “winning” and “harassed,” as I already told you.”

 

“How much they win?” the manager asked Clint.

 

“This small one just cashed in a jackpot on his first spin! They hacked the machines, I know they did. And the other one… he’s a jackass, this is exactly the kind of thing he’d pull.”

 

Bucky looked grossly offended, which he rightfully should. The Bunhead code of honor was strict, and he would never pull this kind of thing, he was much too polite and honest for that.

 

“Besides,” and here Clint’s words turned into a sneer, “they’re both underage.”

 

The manager tried to feign a look of surprised horror, but our savior interceded him before he spoke.

 

“Let me get this straight. Lay all the cards on the table, to speak your lingo, gentlemen: you are saying you let two minors into your establishment, allowed them to play as long as the house was winning, but the moment the tables turn, you accuse them of being criminals? Boy, does that not sit right with me.”

 

The manager swallowed hard, beads of sweat running down his neck.

 

“You have no proof,” he said sheepishly, as if he wasn’t the one needing proof!

 

“And neither have you. But if you go after these boys, I will bury you deeper than they tried to bury Riviera’s murals, you got that?”

 

The whole arcade seemed to have fallen silent, as if even the plinging and beeping of the slot machines had been muted. She had gotten close enough for her face to tower mere inches above the manager’s; a risky position to be in with regards to his spitting. The terror he was feeling seemingly stopped him from spitting, talking or moving at all. Even his pupils seemed to be shaking from fear.

 

“Who’s Riv–?”

 

“Shut up Clint!” the manager barked instantly. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then took a step back before opening them again.

 

“I am sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. And sirs. You can trust that Mr. Barton here will be reprimanded.”

 

He put his hand on Clint’s shoulder and started leading him away, while Clint of course protested loudly.

 

“Typical Barton,” the woman purred, and then chuckled. “I think it’s time you boys call it a day, and trade in your winnings for more manageable currency. Have you counted it yet?” She nodded against the machine I’d been playing, which made her hairstyle wobble in quite a darling way.

 

I turned around to have a proper look at the soda cups Bucky had placed himself in front of to protect, and was surprised (and rather alarmed) at how many they were. Bucky was already squatting down, balancing them on top of each other in his arms.

 

“Nope,” he answered while getting up. “But we’re going to change them in now.”

 

He led the way further into the arcade and up to a counter, with me and our guardian angel following behind. Clint and the manager was nowhere to be seen, and the woman operating the counter smiled and happily accepted Bucky’s business. My attention was elsewhere when Bucky collected the bills and put them away, and when he turned around to leave, I followed him back towards the exit.

 

As we were leaving Strange’s Saloon, Bucky stopped and grabbed me by the shirt sleeve.

 

“Wait a minute,” he said and turned back to a tiny kiosk on the left side of the entrance. 

 

I did stop, and so did our companion, and we stood in silence waiting for Bucky to return. When he did, he had a pack of Lucky Seven cigarettes in his hand.

 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said baffled.

 

He gave me a look that seemed to say “don’t be stupid.”

 

“I don’t. You have asthma,” he said as if the two statements were related.

 

He turned to the woman and threw her the package.

 

“Thanks for helping us out in there, we really appreciate it,” he said, again adopting his low and serious voice.

 

She nodded and began tearing the plastic of the package, smiling while doing so.

 

“You’re very welcome.” 

 

“Do you like Riviera?” I burst out, because I couldn’t help but ask. I had wondered ever since she mentioned his name, and in this town, as demonstrated by Clint, a Riviera fan was hard to find.

 

She struck a match and lit a cigarette before answering.

 

“You can’t not like him,” she said in a hushed voice, cigarette between her teeth. She took it out and blew the smoke. “But it’s Frida whom I love.”

 

She smiled and then turned around, showing the back of her leather jacket. A portrait of Frida Kahlo was painted there, encircled in a garland of flowers. Across her shoulders it said in white cursive print: “ _ Al final del día, podemos aguantar mucho más de lo que pensamos que podemos.” _

 

She reached out her hand for me. I took it, and her hand was pale against mine.

 

“I’m Margarita. But you can call me Peggy. And call me if that idiot, or any other for that matter, bothers you again, okay?” 

 

I didn’t manage to break eye contact or nod before she let go and turned to shake Bucky’s hand too. 

 

She reached inside her pocket for a pencil, one of those tiny wooden ones you get at Ikea, and scribbled something on her matchbox.

 

“Don’t hesitate to call.”

 

She smiled, softly this time, and placed the box in my hand that I still held outstretched. 

 

“I’ll see you around, kids. Spend every penny you won tonight wisely, okay?  _ No drogas _ .”

 

She walked down the deserted street until even the sound of her heels disappeared into the twilight. I looked down at the matchbox and felt like she had left her light with me.

 

Bucky said something and broke my staring off into the distance.

 

“What?” I asked, turning around, shoving the matchbox deep inside my pocket.

 

“400 dollars.”

 

“400 dollars what?”

 

“That’s how much you made!” He smiled widely at me. “Being from Nevada did help after all.”

 

My mouth did, and I am not ashamed to admit it, fall open.

 

“400 dollars?” I repeated incredulously. This simply wasn’t possible, or reasonable.

 

“Yeah!” He put his hands in his jean pocket, and pulled out four folded, wrinkled bills, pushing them towards me.

 

“How…” I said, turning the money over in my hands. They looked real enough. “Are you sure the cashier did the math right?”

 

This would have been a ridiculous amount of quarters, and I was both baffled at the machine for spitting it all out and at Bucky being able to carry it all.

 

“Yes, they’re pro’s at math, and count everything twice, of course she got it right!”

 

I looked at the bills in my hands and then up at Bucky’s beaming face.

 

“Congratulations, man!”

 

This was the biggest amount of pocket money I had ever had. 

 

“Here.” I held out two hundred bills towards Bucky. “You should have half of it.”

 

“What? Of course not, it’s yours, you won it!”

 

“Yeah but, only because you brought me here. You are the one saving up for something, the only reason we came here was for you to make money. So of course you should have half.”

 

Bucky shook his head fiercely. Hair from his bun had come loose, falling across his face.

 

“I insist.”

 

“I refuse.”

 

I sighed. Why did he have to be so difficult in everything? Was I never to get my way in our relationship, whatever it was?

 

“Then I’ll lend it to you,” I said promptly, putting the money in his hand and immediately pulling my hand back. Bucky had to hold on to them, or let them fall to the ground.

“I told you I don’t like borrowing money,” he said looking down at the bills. I was pretty sure they could get him a lot closer to the amount he needed for Shield.

 

“Well, you also like to talk about what you owe me, so just add this to the pile. I don’t mind.” I paused, grudgingly realizing another tactic that might work. 

 

“Take the money, or I will walk home,” I said, testing which of Bucky’s principles was the most steadfast.

 

The look of defeat and irritation at having been caught between a rock and a hard place told me that I had been victorious in a dispute,  _ at long last! _

 

“Thank you,” he muttered and put the money back into his jean pocket. “And you’re not walking home.”

 

I threw my hands up, and didn’t protest one bit (out loud) as Bucky unlocked the bike and handed me the helmet. The price of riding behind him had significantly increased tonight, and I couldn’t even complain about it.

  
The music though,  _ ugh _ .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! It's been a busy couple of weeks with first Pride and then moving, but I'm back to regular posting now. :) Some comfort for the wait though: I've put together a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/tokyodarjeeling/playlist/3m5yjzlCKK2mec09HOvBQC)! Unfortunately lacking almost all the J-pop because it's not available on Spotify, but I'll hopefully be able to make a full list somewhere else some time. For now, the _ugh_ music playing is [Sweet Drive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWTDCEEgNcg) by 7!!.
> 
> The English translation of the quote on the back of Peggy's awesome jacket is “At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.” <3
> 
> Oh, and Strange's beard is the kindest way I could describe those first set pics we saw of Cumberbatch. Little did I know then that that movie would look worse when the trailer dropped, ha ha haaaa.


	10. Unpopular Mechanics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If picture day had been a traumatic event, it would be nothing compared to today. I had suppressed this date since seeing the flyer, but it had come anyway, the best day of the school year according to Bucky Barnes. And parked on the road in front of Dr. Cho’s miniscule sedan, stood a tractor with him in it.

_ “The machine of the world– _

_ i _ _ f you  _ _ don’t grab on, you begin to tremble.  _

_ And if you do  _ _ grab on, then everything trembles.” _

_**_–_** **Richard Siken,** ** _Birds Hover the Trampled Field_**_

 

Getting ready for school the next day significantly richer than I was before felt odd, but since everything concerning that money felt odd, I decided to use school as an excuse not to think about it. The same tactic didn’t work so well on thinking of Bucky.

 

Mom and I were scheduled to ride with Dr. Cho today and the sound of her car horn made me grab my sandwich to go (I had risen early that day to bake with Grandma). With my mouth full, I stopped dead in my tracks in the doorway.

 

If picture day had been a traumatic event, it would be nothing compared to today. I had suppressed this date since seeing the flyer, but it had come anyway, the best day of the school year according to Bucky Barnes. And parked on the road in front of Dr. Cho’s miniscule sedan, stood a tractor with him in it.

 

“Hey, Steve!” he shouted from his seat.

 

I could see that he wasn’t actually driving it; my Viking upperclasswoman Sif was. Double the horror.

 

“Drive your tractor to school day,” my mom mused behind me. She too had a slice of freshly baked bread in her hand. “I’d forgotten about that. The most fun in the school year!”

 

I preferred not to think about that my mother had too endured her teenage years in Simonville, but at times she liked to remind me, fondly, since the brainwashing had obviously gotten to her.

 

“I’m riding with you,” I said quickly, following close behind mom as she headed for Dr. Cho’s car, all the while waving at Bucky.

 

“You are absolutely not, darling,” she said without looking back at me.

 

“I’m not getting in that tractor!” I tried to protest.

 

Mom got in the front seat, and my hand was on the back door handle, when Dr. Cho _locked the car_. She lowered her window.

 

“You’re not getting in this car at least,” she said grinning. “There’s still time to give you a proper Midwestern high school experience, and I’m not standing in the way of that. Enjoy!”

 

She brought the window up again, honked at the tractor once and then backed away, making a U-turn to head towards Sioux City.

 

I stood there stunned, aghast at the parental abandonment I had just been subjected to.

 

“We’re gonna be late, Steve!” Sif boomed. “We have to drop Bucky off too!”

 

What was I to do? It was too late now to catch the bus, I’d already missed it. I turned towards the gargantuan farm vehicle ahead of me, and stared at it.

 

“You can wait a few more seconds!” I heard Grandma’s voice calling from inside the house. Had my salvation arrived?

 

Shuffling outside in her slippers and self-knitted dressing gown, Grandma approached the tractor with two generously buttered sandwiches in hand.

 

“A little something for the road,” she said and reached up to deliver her goods.

 

“Thanks ma’am,” Sif and Bucky said in unison.

 

“Don’t stand around there gaping, they haven’t got all day!” Grandma said sharply and turned to me. She jerked her thumb at the tractor. “Come on, climb aboard.”

 

Struggling to accept this turn of events, I did as instructed, all the while telling myself that it wouldn’t be as bad as riding on Bucky’s bike at least. I had never been on a tractor before, and I found that the seat wasn’t really purposed for three people. Even with my small size taken into account, I was probably sitting even closer to Bucky than when I had to ride behind him on the bike. Thus, the comforting thought didn’t last long. (But hey, at least Skye had not had a boombox built into the tractor as well.)

 

“Have a good day at school!” Grandma said, waving. “And give my best to your folks, Sif! I’m waiting for that first batch of potatoes!”

 

“I’ll drop them off myself as soon as they’re out of the ground!” Sif called back, then started the engine and drove off. Feigning myself against friendly advances from anyone, I realized, was made several times harder by the fact that my grandmother was already friendly with every inhabitant of Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207.

 

Despite being several times its size, the tractor didn’t appear to go any faster than the scooter. It would be a long ride to school.

 

“Hey, I heard you ran into Clint last night,” Sif snickered. “What an ass.”

 

“That’s insulting to asses, I’ve also heard,” I said gloomily, which made her snicker turn into a deep laugh.

 

“We had help though,” I said, the vivid memory of Peggy coming back to me. Not that you could ever forget a woman like that, so more like the memory of her was resurfacing and demanded its rightful place in the story.

 

Bucky nodded.

 

“Yeah, I don’t know how we would have talked our way out of it if she hadn’t been there,” he said.

 

“Hm, she sounds like a cool chick,” Sif said contemplatively. “Whoever she is, I don’t think I’ve seen her around before. But yeah, we have to stick up for each other to douchebags like Clint and Strange.” She took her eyes off the road and smiled reassuringly (the purpose of which was of course defeated by the fact that she had _taken her eyes off the road_ ). “Remember that while I’m still in school, okay? You’re on your own next year.”

 

Thank Minerva for that!

 

I could see a sign announcing Simonville Public up ahead of us, and knew we had at least come halfway on our journey. I wasn’t sure if I felt more or less at ease at the prospect of Bucky leaving us and riding alone with Sif the rest of the way.

 

“Hey, I was thinking,” Bucky said and poked my leg. “Before we go to Des Moines, we should go back to the arcade.”

 

“Whatever for? I’m not getting into more trouble on purpose just to get Peggy to come help me!”

 

“What? No, I meant we should play again. I don’t think that jackpot was a fluke, it could happen again. You’re good at it, or at least got good luck! And I still need more money for Shield…”

 

“You’re getting something done for Natasha?” Sif asked. She didn’t seem to have been initiated into Bucky’s plan, but figured it out soon enough.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky replied. “So how about it?”

 

I shifted in my seat, having no desire whatsoever to ever visit Strange’s Saloon ever again.

 

“You can borrow my share of the money,” I tried.

 

“It’s _all_ your share, and I’m not borrowing anything else!” Bucky protested loudly, this time hitting me on the leg instead.

 

“Ow! Fine! We’ll go back, but I’m not losing what we already won, okay?”

 

“You won’t lose, you’ll win on the first spin,” Bucky said with more confidence than even he could have regarding that preposterous statement. “It doesn’t have to be the arcade in Simonville, either. There’s a place up in Turrington, right?”

 

“Right,” Sif said, slowing down behind several other tractors, lining up along the high school. “Jane’s ex used to work there.”

 

“Oh, but he’s actually nice!”

 

“Who’s Jane?”

 

“My girlfriend,” Sif explained with a grin, making her look less scary than I’d ever seen her. Keeping track of all the current and post partners of The Bunheads was going to be a part of my life from now on, wouldn’t it?

 

“I’ll come pick you up after school then, okay?” Bucky said, leaning over me to open the door.

 

“On your bike or in a tractor?” I asked curtly.

 

“I’ll drive you home in this and Bucky can take his bike over to yours later,” Sif answered instead.

 

I said nothing on the matter, as Bucky climbed over me. He stopped on the step, leaning on the tractor roof.

 

“Yeah, Skye’s driving me home in their tractor,” he said.

 

Why did the Mays even _have_ a tractor? They were real estate agents!

 

Bucky jumped down and waved to us as I closed the door and had to continue the journey into misery at Charles Floyd.

 

“Bucky was serious when he said that about getting a painting by Shield for Natasha, right?” Sif asked as she backed the tractor, looking for enough space on the road to turn it around.

 

“Yes,” I sighed. “He’s getting “Thank you, Natasha” on his bike to show how much he owes her.”

 

“Wow, that’s real deep.”

 

The shallowest depths, if we had to call it deep at all.

 

“I hope Shield takes him on,” she said. “They’re very picky. Bucky’d be so bummed if they turned him down.”

 

“Yup. You believe they exist then?”

 

“Who? The gods?”

 

“What?! No, Shield!”

 

“What’re you talking about?” Sif frowned. “Of course they exist, they’re only human.”

 

“That wasn’t what I… uh, never mind. I just mean, they sound like an urban legend.”

 

“They’re not. And neither are the gods, for that matter.”

 

“Okay… but honestly, have you ever seen any of Shield’s work for yourself?”

 

“The Winter Biker has their paintings on her bike.”

 

“Yeah, but I’m not sure she’s not an urban legend either.”

 

“Her I _have_ seen. Or at least I think it was her. Outside Minneapolis, on the border to Wisconsin.”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“How was she?”

 

“The coolest, badest biker I’d ever seen, of course! She’s the _Winter Biker_ …”

 

Accepting that most members of The Bunheads were probably equally lost causes, I gave up on asking, and we spent the rest of the ride in silence. When Sif had parked on the school parking lot (where not a single car could be found that day) I tried to get out of the tractor seat as soon as possible, but the climb down proved more difficult than Bucky had made it seem.

 

“See you here after last period!” Sif said as she marched away to her first class, leaving me and my significantly shorter legs far behind her. I almost thought “No, we won’t” before reprimanding my brain, reminding it that running away from Sif would probably only result in her running after me, _in a tractor_.

 

Since the end of term was approaching, there was not much school work left to do in all subjects. I spent third period in the computer hall rather than sitting through another one of Mr. Pym’s dissections, and instead tried to investigate if there was any chance whatsoever to find the Shield studio we were going to Des Moines to search for.

 

No matter how much I changed my searches, “Shield” + “motorbikes” + “bike customization” + “Des Moines” or any other major Midwestern cities didn’t yield me much in terms of concrete evidence. Trying to go at it from a different angle, I started searching for this legendary Winter Biker and here my findings were more numerous, and a lot more varied. A lot of it seemed to be unsubstantial rumors (a whole forum thread was devoted to so called “sightings” like the one Sif had told me about earlier, that took place all across the American continent, north and south, as well as surprisingly often in Eastern Europe). In conclusion, the many stories about the Winter Biker varied from perfectly plausible to as-if-that-would-ever-happen ridiculous. In other words, just like a normal conversation with Bucky.

 

To summarize, the legend of the Winter Biker went something like this: age and origin unknown, she first appeared on the biker scene in the late 90s. The bikers of Indiana had long struggled with increasing levels of brutality and criminality among their ranks, and more and more gangs went from being strictly about riding to getting caught up in drugs, violence and organized crime. The original biker culture was dying out while one of criminal gangs were taking over. That was when a young female biker started to shake things up. Some say she came from a long family line of bikers (this theory put her place of birth as Sturgis, South Dakota, a place I remembered Bucky mentioning), others that she was an army vet, who had been dishonorably discharged on false grounds. A more negative theory was that she was an undercover cop the whole time, and an opposite also existed: that she was a former juvenile offender who had gotten out and found the biker scene in ruins. Regardless of her origin, she formed her own gang with five other girls, but she did not name it. Instead, they were all known for riding bikes painted blood red. Under the leadership of the Winter Biker, who was recognized by her own silver-and-red-star bike, brought all girl gangs in Indiana under control, regardless of size or operation. She still wouldn’t name her gang, but colloquially they became known as the Red Room. The Red Room broke up criminalized gangs, viciously ended prostitution rings and put a stop to drug routes through brute force. The Winter Biker held strict policies, and the main one was that you must be a hardcore biker, or none at all. If you wished to stay in the underworld, you had to surrender your bike.

 

The popularity of this new kid on the block grew and more and more bikers joined forces with her voluntarily. Several of the gangs asked her to form one big team, of which she’d be the leader. But the Winter Biker refused, saying that domination had never been a goal, that she had cleaned up the biker streets for the sake of riding, not for her own profit. She still would not name her own gang, and never used the nickname Red Room, but anyone who wanted to ride with her or the other girls on blood red bikes were welcome to. This was when the sightings began to be recorded, because whenever the Winter Biker rode the roads of Indiana, every other biker in the state wanted to do the same, female as well as male.

 

Of course, she also quickly made enemies with gangs who would not leave their criminal activity and who objected to a girl telling them what to do. The clashes between them and the Red Room allies grew more frequent, but every time it came to blows, the Winter Biker would demand a one on one fight with the other leader. And no matter the opposition or their weapons, she always won and came out on top. Until one day, when she vanished from the biker scene as suddenly as she appeared. A mixed gang approached her and told the tale of how they had been taken on by a bigger gang who had gotten them heavily mixed up with drug trade and prostitution. Now they wanted out, and the Winter Biker’s help with that. It wasn’t explicitly stated, “for security reasons,” but it was heavily implied that this bigger gang was at a level of Hell’s Angels or Bandidos. True to her tradition, the Winter Biker sought out their leader alone – but was ambushed. It ended with her taking down at least twenty mobsters and after that, nobody knew what happened to her. Some said that the police got hold of her and that she was still doing time, others that she went into hiding and some believed that she had laid down her own life in order to kill the gang boss. The theories about her increased in number after this event, but she was still regularly sighted. In the last month, she had reportedly driven through the town of Wanaka, New Zealand, down the coast of Ibaraki, Japan and stopped for gas in Flagstaff, Arizona.

 

In the end I didn’t find what I had originally searched for; Shield. While everyone agreed on the design and painting on her bike, who had done the job was left out of most accounts. Well, the visit to Des Moines might not be entirely pointless, I was planning on leaving my submission for the Howling Commandos at the Van Dyne Gallery.

 

When the bell rang out at the end of the day, I set my course for the parking lot instead of the bus stop, and reached the tractor before Sif. She came marching up a few minutes later, her phone in her hand.

 

“Change of plans,” she declared and unlocked the tractor, opened the door and swung herself inside in one graceful step.

 

Would she not drive me home? Was Bucky not picking me up later? Would I be spared a visit to another gambling hall? Whichever, I was blessed!

 

“Skye has a shift today, so I’m taking you directly to Turrington to meet Bucky there,” Sif said as I struggled to climb into my seat. Cursed again, I thought to myself but didn’t comment on this change, just nodded.

 

I had never been to Turrington, and it was further away than I had realized. Bucky made this trip several times a week on his impeccably slow scooter! Well, it showed dedication at least. I spent most of the passing time staring out at identical pastures (although the cornfields were more mixed in with other crops the closer we got to Turrington) and “mmm”-ing while Sif discussed her plans after graduation: apparently she wanted to go to University of Nebraska to study Range management, whatever that was. (The name was rather clear, but I mean: what was that like _academically?_ )

 

Abruptly the scenery around us changed as we drove into the Turrington town center, and Sif actually made two turns before stopping at the end of a street next to a garage with a sign saying Mackenzie Motors in a font I was somewhat sure they had stolen from _Grease_. Its driveway was occupied by several motorbikes, a pickup truck and another tractor; this one supposedly belonging to the May’s.

 

Sif honked the horn to signal our arrival but didn’t step out of the tractor, so I climbed out and made my way to the entrance alone. I slowed my pace when the sound of a motorbike approaching was heard behind me. Sif honked again, and a young woman dressed head to toe in black leather ( _real_ leather), who I assumed must be the older May sister, parked next to me.

 

“You must be Steve,” she said as a statement, not as a greeting.

 

She walked past me before I could answer or comment on her words, and I followed suit in silence. Behind me, Sif honked again and drove off.

 

A dark green convertible stood with its hood up straight in front of the open garage doors and two people stood bent over it. I recognized one of them as Bucky, and assumed the other one to be Skye.

 

“Hi, Mellie!” She said as she turned around, followed by Bucky who repeated the greeting, but using the name May instead, then greeted me as well.

 

I knew the older sister was in college, and that Skye was the same age as me and Bucky, but more than age set the sisters apart. Sure, they had very similar facial structures: same small noses, same tall foreheads, but in poise, aura and aesthetics the contrast was stark. Melinda’s hair was its natural black, with a heavy straight cut fringe, while Skye had rainbow colored highlights in hers and the kind of zig zag parting that was trendy in the early 2000’s. Skye dressed as a female version of Bucky (that alarmed me a bit), while Melinda had significantly more class than either of them.

 

“Look what Mack just got in.” Skye turned back to the car again. “It’s a Ford ’58 Edsel Pacer, isn’t it beautiful?”

 

“It is,” May agreed, stepping forward to have a closer look.

 

“Oh, hi Steve!” Skye squealed as she finally spotted me (Bucky’s greeting from just a few seconds ago seemed to have passed by her unnoticed).

 

And then, to my utter surprise and slight terror, she leapt forward and _hugged me_. I froze and barely had time to wonder why before she let go again and put her face uncomfortable close to mine and looked me in the eye.

 

“I’ve been dying to meet you!” she exclaimed.

 

 _Wish not reciprocated_ , I thought but didn’t say.

 

She turned around to look at Bucky, _with her arm around my shoulder?!_ , and asked him:

 

“How much d’you plan on winning tonight?”

 

Bucky shrugged.

 

“That depends on Steve, doesn’t it?”

 

“Well, at least they’re nicer at Bifrost Hall than at Strange’s arcade! So you have that going for you.”

 

“The only time you’ve been in Bifrost Hall,” May said coolly, “they threw you out.”

 

“I can’t help my youthful appearance, okay?” Skye said defensively, pouting a little.

 

“Are you gonna stand around being youthful and useless all day, or are we gonna get some work done today?” a deep voice that sounded much friendlier than the sentence it spoke.

 

It belonged to a man I assumed to be Mack, another giant of Sif’s height (must be something in the drinking water here), with a closed shaved head and a neatly trimmed beard that framed his face. He was wearing a tank top and a work uniform, rolled down and tied around his waist, and stereotypically enough he was wiping his hands on an oily rag.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Skye said and let go of me. “You two should get going.” She bumped her fist against Bucky’s shoulder as she passed him and disappeared further into the garage.

 

Mack squinted his eyes at me and tilted his head.

 

“You a relative of Mrs. Fury in Simonville?” he asked and I had to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Grandma really did know everyone in the whole county.

 

“She’s my grandmother,” I answered.

 

“I can see the family resemblance,” Mack said with a wide smile. “That must mean Sarah’s your mother, then?”

 

That comment I got more seldom.

 

“Yes. We moved back recently.”

 

“We’re glad to have you back. Say hello to your mom for me, will you? We were in the NAACP chapter at high school together.”

 

“Oh, sure will,” I responded, still reeling a little. I didn’t remember meeting any of my mom’s old friends before, even though she surely must know at least half as many people around here as Grandma did.

 

Bucky had come up to stand beside me, and I took that as our cue to go.

 

“It was nice meeting you,” I said and did a half wave.

 

Mack waved back, nodding.

 

“And I’ll see you tomorrow, Buck.”

 

May was standing leaning against her family tractor, apparently having been given the task of driving it home.

 

“You know, I would feel a lot better about leaving my bike for Skye if I knew you’d be here to keep an eye on her,” she said to Bucky.

 

“Has she ever scratched it before?” Bucky asked in a meaning voice, adding a bit of “there, there” to it.

 

“No, but she’s also good enough at repairing scratches that she could have covered them up.”

 

She smirked and raised an eyebrow at Bucky, who had the choice between whether to defend his best friend’s skill or trustworthiness as a driver, and at the same time dismiss the other. He snorted and was defeated.

 

“Anyway,” May said and stood up straight. “I was wondering how you two were gonna get home from here? Since your bike’s back in Simonville.”

 

Bucky froze up with a slight look of panic in his eyes.

 

“Bucky,” I said. I certainly wasn’t getting stranded in Turrington overnight! Out of the two of us, he was the one in charge of transportation. See, another reason why drive your tractor to school day was not a good idea.

 

“Tell you what,” May said and moved from the tractor and to her bike again. “I leave the tractor here after all, and Skye can drive you all home tonight.”

 

“That’ll work!” Bucky said with relief. I too had to admit that riding a tractor for the third time today was most likely better than staying here.

 

“Skye, you’re taking the tractor!” May called and put her helmet on.

 

“What?” Skye came running back out again. “Why?”

 

“Cause these two idiots have no way of getting home unless you give them a ride.”

 

“But I wanted to ride your bike! You never let me ride your bike!”

 

“Well, if I’d know they’d be stranded here I wouldn’t have driven it out here in the first place. Blame this on the boys, not me.”

 

Skye stuck her tongue out at Bucky who smiled back apologetically, shrugging his shoulders.

 

“See you at the meeting on Sunday,” May said and nodded her head, then drove off on her bike (an actual motorbike, unlike some people’s…).

 

“We’ll come back here when we’re done,” Bucky said to Skye and started walking.

 

“And richer. I should be charging you for being your taxi!”

 

“So that was the May’s,” I said as we’d walked a few blocks down the street.

 

“Yeah, they’re cool, aren’t they? Kinda regretting not joining the gang now, are you?”

 

“ _No?_ ”

 

“Ah, well. Just cause you got a brain for gambling, doesn’t mean you got a brain for anything else.”

 

“Hey!”

  
Not joining the gang was definitely one of my most intelligent decisions since I got mixed up with you, I thought to myself. Maybe the _only_ intelligent decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *THE BEST DAY OF THE YEAR*
> 
> A round of applause for enabling friends and family dedicated to giving you the real ~Midwestern high school experience~ (that I've learned a lot about from Buzzfeed community posts, thanks guys)
> 
> Oh, and if you can remember another student from somewhere who's studying Range management at University of Nebraska, you get a piece of Grandma Fury's home baked bread ;)
> 
> (also: what kind of fic writer would I be if I didn't quote Richard Siken at least once, huh?)


	11. The King of Bifrost Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t be absurd. I don’t even know her,” I said as off-handedly as I could and walked out the door. 
> 
> “No, but you’d like to, right?” Bucky bent down as he walked besides me, trying to get a better look at my face.
> 
> “I thought I’d made it pretty clear at this point just where I stand on the issue of getting to know people,” I sighed and kept my face forward, trying to move it as little as possible.
> 
> “You have, you have,” Bucky admitted, “but I think she’s different.”

_ “Somehow you were special. You’re still special to me. Special things are always special right from the start and remain special until the end.” _

**_–_ ** **Novala Takemoto,** **_Emily_ **

Bifrost Hall, while filling me with the exact same kind of dread I’d spent a lifetime associating with gambling halls, was a vastly different establishment than Strange’s Saloon. The floors were covered with a tie-dye wall to wall carpet with rainbow stripes, and the midnight blue ceiling was filled with thousands little blinking LED stars. The bombastic music sounding from the speakers seemed to be the soundtrack to a fantasy role-playing game and the staff played into the same vibe, starting every sentence with “Greetings!” and ending them with “At your service.” It was also a proper casino, and the chances of us being thrown out like Skye had been seemed infinitely higher than at Strange’s, even without Clint being here.

 

“I’ll pick out a good machine for you,” Bucky said and set off towards the slot machines.

 

“I can do that myself,” I objected and followed close behind him, looking out for any security guards ready to escort us off the premises.

 

“You can’t read the data on them.”

 

“And did that work out for you last time?” I said, snider than I intended.

 

“I have a bad connection to the arcade, okay? I know what I’m talking about. See, this machine right here. The stats are good and it’s a simple model, so it’s perfect for you.” 

 

The machine Bucky had stopped in front of was gold and glittery, and utterly tasteless. Slot machines per definition are, but I turned my nose up at this one an extra bit.

 

I kept walking, even with Bucky protesting, and fell upon a rarity that even I had heard of: one of the controversial and now supposedly banned  _ Lord of the Rings _ slot machines that had enraged the Tolkien estate so. It was awful, but I couldn’t help but smile at it.

 

“I’ll take this one,” I stated.

 

“What? I haven’t seen this model before. It looks pretty old too – hey, it doesn’t take coins, only bills. You up for spending that much?”

 

I picked up on Bucky’s sarcasm, but just rolled my eyes at him.

 

“I’ll only play for 20 dollars, that’s my limit. Then we can forget all about this.”

 

Bucky shrugged and crossed his arms across his chest (across the words “Harley Davidson, St Paul”) and leaned against another machine, as I sat down and straightened out a five dollar bill to insert into the machine.

 

I hit the start button and watched as fifteen year old animations played out before me, and then nothing happened. My genius was seemingly short lived, alas. Because I’d named a limit to Bucky and for no other reason, I put in another bill and another, with the same result. 

 

“Guess we’re not making it to Mordor today,” I said curtly but Bucky didn’t seem stressed.

 

“Put in the last bill,” he said confidently. 

 

If it wasn’t so idiotic, I’d be almost touched that anyone had that much faith in me. So I did insert my last five dollars. 

 

And at that, the rule of Sauron ended. The machine let out a fanfare, a midi tune version of the films’ theme and all members of the Fellowship appeared on the screen to congratulate me. Thankfully enough, it didn’t release a cloud of dollar bills.

 

“You did it! You actually did it!” Bucky was yelling, but not out of surprise it seemed, just happiness.

 

A clerk at the casino appeared to sort out my winnings, and he didn’t seem suspicious of our ages at all.

 

“Greetings, and greatest congratulations to you, my friend! A great victory you have made!” He was smiling from ear to ear and the bun at the top of his head (it looked like an actual chon-mage) could put the Bunheads to shame. 

 

He read the machine and set it back to its regular, non-jackpot state, and then brought us to a counter (a tall wooden counter, decorated with carved drinking horns) to pay our winnings. The higher stakes paid off and I soon stared down at 655 dollars in my hand. A preposterous amount. Maybe it was because it was the second time it happened, or because the amount was too high to comprehend, but it didn’t feel as astonishing as the last time. Was I becoming  _ used _ to this?

 

Bucky seemed to pick up on my lower level of excitement. 

 

“You’re disappointed, huh?”

 

“I don’t see how anyone could be disappointed about winning almost 700 dollars.”

 

“I didn’t mean the money.” Bucky smiled crookedly. “You’re disappointed she wasn’t here.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Peggy, the woman who–”

 

“I remember.”

 

“Yes, and…”

 

“Why would I be disappointed? Why would I think she’d be here in the first place?”

 

I noticed it a few seconds too late, but the pitch of my voice was higher.

 

Bucky stopped in the entrance to the casino (there were gates, with wooden pillars) and turned to look at me with a meaning look I refused to interpret. He slowly put his hands in his pockets and smiled crookedly again.

 

“I think you’ve been disappointed since she left. But I could be wrong.”

 

He said it as if he was one hundred percent convinced that he was anything but wrong, meanwhile I was highly uncertain if he was right or wrong myself. Regardless, I wasn’t going to let that on.

 

“Don’t be absurd. I don’t even know her,” I said as off-handedly as I could and walked out the door. 

 

“No, but you’d like to, right?” Bucky bent down as he walked besides me, trying to get a better look at my face.

 

“I thought I’d made it pretty clear at this point just where I stand on the issue of getting to know people,” I sighed and kept my face forward, trying to move it as little as possible.

 

“You have, you have,” Bucky admitted, “but I think she’s different.”

 

Out of arguments, I rolled my eyes as a last resort and by benevolent grace, Bucky dropped the subject and we walked back to Mack’s garage without touching the subject again.

 

“Do you think you have enough for Shield now?” I asked.

 

“Technically, I don’t have any money myself to pay Shield with…”

 

“Do you think you will have enough after I’ve lent you the money?” I tried again.

 

Bucky sighed loudly and shrugged once.

 

“I sure hope so.”

 

We’d reached the right street, and the  _ Grease _ style sign over the shop had been lit. 

 

“Well, we could go play again,” I heard myself say as we approached and spotted Skye waving to us at the front. “If I do have a talent for this, we might as well take advantage of it.”

 

I darted a glance at Bucky and saw his face shine up, and then revert to the same ominous crooked smiled I’d seen earlier with annoying frequency. 

 

“That’d be great, thanks,” he said. “We might even run into a certain someone, too.”

 

I didn’t get a chance to answer back to that as Skye came running out, jumping up and down.

 

“ _ Well? _ ” she asked, eyes glittering.

 

“Genius here won 700 dollars,” Bucky answered grinning.

 

Skye let out a squeak and jumped to hug me,  _ again _ . 

 

“Then it’s about time we go for a spin as celebration, right?” she said, clasping both our shoulders, despite the fact that riding a tractor was a strange way to celebrate a casino win. 

 

Bucky and Skye both called goodbye to Mack and we all climbed into the May’s tractor (not as tall as Sif’s, but with a wider seat so we all fit better). I got to enjoy observing the field at dusk in peace while the other two discussed the bike models Mack had in the shop right now, as well as the new mixtape Skye was making.

 

When we came to a stop outside my house, it was almost dark out and all lights were on inside. 

 

“We have a gang meeting this weekend, but I’ll definitely see you next week!” Bucky reassured me as I climbed out, with a bit more grace now (was I starting to get the hang of this? Banish the thought!), and Skye leaned over him, waving.

 

“It was great to finally meet you!”

 

I stood by the gates and watched them drive away, shaking my head. I realized that Bucky hadn’t taken his part of the money, but as he’d promised, I wasn’t getting out of seeing him soon again, so it didn’t matter.

 

“Drive your tractor to  _ and _ from school day, eh,” Grandma greeted me as I entered the kitchen. “How did you find it?”

 

“Tolerable,” I said as I sat down, not wanting to disappoint too much. 

 

Grandma snickered quietly to herself, surely with a hidden meaning behind it, but I preferred not to think about that. 

 

Mom was working the night shift, so it was only me and Gran who enjoyed more slices of our baked bread with soup (and no, not corn soup, thanks for enquiring). 

 

It had gotten late and I was just about to go up to bed when mom came home, going straight to the kitchen to get a late dinner. 

 

“How was it?” she asked. “Your Midwestern high school experience?” 

 

I filled a bowl for her and made an effort not to grimace. 

 

“Long-winded and torturous, as per usual,” I answered.

 

Mom laughed and blew on her reheated soup. 

 

“That’s the price you have to pay, I guess.”

 

She put her spoon down and looked me in the eye, a very gentle look on her face that made me squirm a little.

 

“I am really happy you’ve found friends here, despite the culture shock.”

 

I looked down at the table, feeling an overwhelming need to not disappoint my mother. And yet…

 

“I don’t know if you can call them “friends”,” I said cautiously.

 

“Singular, then.”

 

I looked up at her.

 

“You and Bucky have a lot in common,” she said then, blowing at her soup and eating it, as if what she’d just said was entirely normal and not staggeringly inaccurate.

 

“We have nothing in common and we are not really friends,” I said firmly.

 

Mom shook her head slightly, and continued eating for a few long moments. I couldn’t read her silence.

 

“I meant that you both have very colorful personalities,” she said slowly, as if weighing her words, but at the same time sounding very sure of herself. “I think you fit, that’s all.”

 

I myself thought that I probably fit better with anyone else than with Bucky, but since there had been… no one else, my argument was rather void. I let the statement go undisputed and decided to let mom finish her late dinner in peace.

 

“I know I’m old now, and a mom, but I’ve watched that boy and he’s different from the usual kids I see, and from what they were like here when I was young,” mom spoke up suddenly, back at the topic at hand: Bucky. 

 

“He rides around on that silly looking scooter and he dresses like he’s tougher than he is, but he’s a good kid at heart. Even if he does make you ride a tractor to school.” She winked. “You’re lucky to have met him. Even if you’re too stubborn to see that, it should be clear to you by now that you could have done  _ a lot worse _ in this town.”

 

Mom had scraped out the bowl, and got up to put it in the sink before I had time to protest, debate or even say anything – and it was just as well, because I didn’t have anything to say. 

 

I stood up too.

 

“I’m going up to bed,” I announced quietly.

 

Mom nodded and followed me out the kitchen.

 

“Me too, it’s getting late. Sleep tight.”

 

She patted me on the back and I would have walked up the stairs without turning to look at her, but I remembered something.

 

I stopped on the stairs, and turned around to face mom again.

 

“I met a friend of yours today, from high school,” I told her.

 

“Oh? Who?” Her eyebrows rose slightly.

 

“Mackenzie, something?” I realized that was wrong, and that I didn’t know his first name.

 

“Oh!” Mom laughed, squinting her eyes. “Mack! I didn’t think he was still here.”

 

“He runs a mechanic shop in Turrington,” I told her, noticing she used his nickname. “He said you were in the NAACP chapter in school together.”

 

“We were.”

 

“I never knew you were political,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

 

“Well, it  _ was _ the only student association available apart from 4H and Young Farmers of America. And seeing as there weren’t a lot of other black kids at Simonville Public, being political wasn’t much of a choice.” 

 

“Is that part of why you left?”

 

She smiled mildly, and tilted her head slightly, waiting a few moments before answering.

 

“There are a lot of reasons to leave Simonville, but not all of them are  _ in _ Simonville, you know?”  

 

I spent a lot of my time, especially in the past few days, to earn the means to temporarily leave Simonville, but what mom said made me wonder about it. Was I running from something or to something? My view of this place so far was that those were two and the same, but maybe they weren’t. They hadn’t been for mom.

 

“I’m tucking in for the night,” mom said and stepped forward to kiss my forehead. When I stood on the stair step like this she didn’t need to bend down to reach. “Say hello to Mack if you see him again.”

 

“I probably will. Bucky works for him.”

 

Mom bent back a bit, delighted surprise in her eyes (everything I said about Bucky was delightful to her).

 

“Would you look at that! I imagine they’d be quite a pair.” 

 

She kissed me on the forehead again, and headed to her room. 

 

I walked up the stairs and into my bedroom, longing to lay down and stare up onto my art prints and make a considerable effort not to keep thinking of our conversation downstairs. I was practically rich now, I could think about that instead! Except of course that richness was expressly tied to Bucky, and half of it was his anyway. Or would be, if he accepted the loan. And the rest, well, I had to to tell mom and Grandma before I thought of spending them. They most likely needed them.

 

I walked to my window, facing the road, to turn the blinds down first thing and as I untied the string I stopped and stared at something that moved outside. 

 

Someone was walking down the road, or maybe marching was a more accurate description, with slow and determined steps. They appeared to be restrained by something – what were they wearing? I leaned close to the window, squinting. It was… it was Namor, wasn’t it? Who we’d met at Denny’s, right? Wearing what appeared to be a… scuba diving suit?! It made no sense but… 

 

And as if my thoughts had been heard out loud, Namor stopped dead in his tracks and sharply turned his face towards my window, eyes staring straight into mine. Taken by surprise, I gave a little yelp and jumped back, letting go of the string in the process. The blinds fell promptly down, shielding me from Namor’s adamant stare.

 

Flustered I stood frozen on the spot, thinking that my mother really was right: I could have done a lot worse than Bucky in this town.

 

“When you said that Namor was “passionate” – he’s not dangerous, is he?” I texted Bucky as I got into bed, just to make sure I didn’t have an axe murderer wandering along the road.

 

“No, not at all. Why?” was the instant reply.

 

“No reason. You forgot to take your share of the money, by the way.”

 

“It’s not my share! Had some change of plans though, do you wanna meet tomorrow? Lunch at Denny’s?”

  
I looked at the final message for a few minutes, not simply hearing but almost feeling the weight of my mother’s words before I sent back a “Yes.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all the comments Hanna & Sofia left while beta-ing this story, Hanna's unironic "ADORE THIS" to the awful decor of Bifrost Hall is one of the most hilarious. <3
> 
> Not to toot my own horn too much here but, Sarah Rogers really is The Best. Namor is a close second.
> 
> And oh, quoting a novella by the same author who wrote the book this story is based on? A novella with the same name as me? Such meta, wow. But! _Emily_ by Novala Takemoto was just released in English _yesterday_ (on Kindle only) and I read it all in one sitting. Very different from Kamikaze Girls, more serious and graphic (quite a few triggers for violence, sexual assault, etc) but it is very much a Takemoto book and I've really missed his language and style. This novella + two short stories were translated by Misa Lindberg, who I think did a very good job. You can get it [here](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01JIWO22M#nav-subnav) and I really recommend it! :)


	12. She Walks in Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is a small place, with two casinos, and the two of you have gone to both and won jackpots on slot machines several times now. Last I heard, Strange was sending warnings to the places in the city, to keep an eye out for you.” Peggy winked. “A long haired biker and his itty-bitty sidekick, and it’s the sidekick who’s always winning.”
> 
> I was no stranger to comments on my size, or even to the particularly humiliating “itty-bitty” but to be referred to as _Bucky’s sidekick_ was downright offensive. Where do I make an official complaint of this slander?!

_ “Was life, were human relations like this always, Therese wondered. Never solid ground underfoot. Always like gravel, a little yielding, noisy so the whole world could hear, so no one listened, too, for the loud, harsh step of the intruder’s foot.” _

**– Patricia Highsmith,** **_Carol_ **

After having finally set a date and consulted the bus time table for our trip to Des Moines, the week leading up to it drudged on slowly in school. It included less hay and tractors, but not many other redeeming qualities. 

 

Bucky had decided that a thousand dollars was the highest price he’d be willing to sensibly pay Shield to give him a customized painting on his bike – even if it turned out really small. With my loan and the advance on his paycheck he said that he’d just about make it. Of course, without my unexpected winnings, he would never have managed to save up a sum of that size in this amount of time, if in any. I sure could not have. I had to regularly remind myself that I even had these riches, since they were so astronomical in comparison to my normal economy it was just easier to ignore it.

 

Out of a sheer why-not mood I offered to make another visit to Bifrost Hall. I could just as well be bored in Turrington as in Simonville, I figured as I waited by the parking lot at school for Bucky to come pick me up, and this way I could keep him out of the house. I had also promised mom to give her well wishes to Mack, so there was another reason for the trip. 

 

“Your mom went to high school with Mack? That’s so cool! It’s almost like you and I were meant to meet, you know,” Bucky said when I told him.

 

Now, not that I believed in any variant of destiny, dear reader, but if I had, I would say that destiny did not work like that. Then again, it was Iowa destiny, so that might just be it. 

 

“Greetings!” a clerk we hadn’t seen last time bellowed as we walked in through the doors; he was a big man with an even bigger, red beard. 

 

I smiled and nodded back, not wanting to draw any more attention to us than necessary. We had entered serial offender territory with the underage gambling here, and just because we’d had a lucky break on our last time, didn’t mean the streak would continue. And Peggy was not here to save us again…

 

“I’ve read up a bit more on the types of machines they have here, what models have better odds and so…” Bucky said, still confident that he knew what he was talking about.

 

“I’m going to choose my own machine, thank you very much,” I said and brushed his advice off as usual.

 

“Don’t use the same as last time, it won’t give you a jackpot that soon again–”

 

“I know that.”

 

The machine I did end up choosing had a colorful, Japanese inspired-bordering-on-cultural-appropriation design and looked out of place with the rest of the décor of the place. Its animations were supposed to mimic  _ ukiyo-e _ prints and I guess I took pity on this misuse of the art form. How many others of its players were going to enjoy or even recognize this art?  

 

This too was a bill machine, with higher stakes and I inserted a ten dollar bill while Bucky stood next to me, arms crossed, face strained with concentration, muttering under his breath about data and numbers.

 

I pressed the button to start the machine (“HA!” it yelled back at me) and observed the flashing images without really seeing them. I really must not let this become a bigger habit than it already had, I thought gloomily.

 

“Hey, who do we have here?” 

 

I took my eyes off the machine (it didn’t need my attention anyway) and looked down the aisle to my left. Six machines away sat a familiar figure.

 

Peggy.

 

She looked very much the same from our last meeting; her Kahlo leather jacket was draped across the stool she was perched upon and her hair was done up in what must be her signature unicorn look; the most elaborate one I had come across. It was strangely befitting of her facial structure, and you could do nothing but admire her conviction to it.

 

She got up and left her machine, walking up to us. 

 

“ _ Buenas noches _ ,” she greeted. “I see you’re on a roll again today.”

 

She raised her eyebrows, nodding towards my machine.

 

“Oh,” I said, turning around to look at it too, heat building in my cheeks. “Not really.”

 

“I’m sure you will be soon. Even though I have no idea how you do it,” she chuckled and the laughter had its own beat and melody. 

 

I shrugged and didn’t meet her eyes, then put another bill in.

 

“Even though it’s not a game of skill,” she mused, pausing for the machine’s “HA!”, “I’m still impressed by how you play.”

 

“There is some skill involved, if you know how to yield it,” Bucky commented. “If you learn to read the numbers right.”

 

Peggy tilted her head.

 

“ _ Chico _ , ain’t no truth to that. Don’t trust Number Readers, okay? The brokest fellows in this business,” she said pointedly, but voice still filled with kindness.

 

While her attention was elsewhere, I had dared to look at her again. By her ears, I noticed, short strands of hair were curling, adding a softness to her look. I also saw more details on her rose tattoos, now that her neck was more exposed. On the left side of her neck, a black spider hung from a thread on a web-covered rose.

 

“Hey…” I heard her say, dark, speckled eyes widening.

 

“Steve!”

 

If Bucky hadn’t punched me in the arm as he said that, I don’t know if I would have pried my eyes away from her again, but he did, and so I took a look at the machine to see that I was winning, again. 

 

“Greetings and greatest congratulations!” the red-bearded clerk from earlier boomed, appearing in our aisle as if he had been lying in wait close by. “Allow me to bring you your winnings!”

 

Bucky and I followed suit without comment, and when I looked over my shoulder I saw Peggy wrapping her jacket around her shoulders and following too.

 

I barely had time to register any feelings concerning that, when Bucky spoke to her and I immediately regretted her company.

 

“Hey miss, would you mind telling me more about Number Readers? I don’t think it’s all fake, you know. But you seem to know the business better.”

 

He was attempting to use his lower voice registry again, and I rolled my eyes. 

 

Peggy was walking behind me and I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to turn around, so I didn’t see her expression when she answered. I could picture it clearly though, as she chuckled the same musical laughter as before.

 

“I charge dearly for my advice on  _ the business _ ,” she said, voice still filled with kindness and a tad of patience. 

 

“Congratulations again, friend! May we see many happy returns to Bifrost Hall!” the clerk said as he handed me a small stack of bills with both hands. With the due distraction right behind me, and the very strange fact that being handed quantities of cash had lost its novelty, I folded the money up and stuffed them in my pocket without counting. That was a tell-tale rookie move, I assume, but I took comfort in that. 

 

I turned around, and the other two had already began walking towards the exit.

 

“Are you a pro then, miss?” Bucky asked, continuing his pestering questions.

 

Peggy shook her head slowly.

 

“I used to work the circuit in Vegas a while, but I wouldn’t say I’ve earned the title of a professional,” she said in a husky voice, her tone regretful.

 

“Are you from Nevada?” I quickly asked, before even thinking it through.

 

She looked back at me with a small smile and frown, a funny look like she found what I asked odd. 

 

“From El Paso,” she answered, raising an eyebrow. “People can usually hear when they’re talking to a Texan.”

 

I blinked at her. Why was I feeling a slight disappointment at this answer? Would it have been a plus if she were a Nevadan like me? I surely hadn’t considered that a perk in anyone else I’d met. And why did I ask her in the first place?

 

We stepped through the doors, and into the silence outside. Peggy raised her chin and continued the conversation, disregarding my short awkward moment.

 

“Are you going to keep playing?” she asked.

 

I shrugged, and then shook my head.

 

“Not really. We only started because…” I trailed off to glance at Bucky, unsure if he would want me to say this, but he picked up my words.

 

“Because I needed some money. Hadn’t expected Steve to be a genius at this, but it worked out great!”

 

“I’m glad you’re not getting sucked into it, but it’s a bit of a shame, really. You were on your way to become local celebrities.”

 

“Celebrities?” Bucky repeated, and meanwhile I had to stop myself from physically reeling. Local fame was the last thing I wanted in Simonville.

 

“This is a small place, with two casinos, and the two of you have gone to both and won jackpots on slot machines several times now. Last I heard, Strange was sending warnings to the places in the city, to keep an eye out for you.” Peggy winked. “A long haired biker and his itty-bitty sidekick, and it’s the sidekick who’s always winning.”

 

I was no stranger to comments on my size, or even to the particularly humiliating “itty-bitty” but to be referred to as  _ Bucky’s sidekick _ was downright offensive. Where do I make an official complaint of this slander?!

 

Bucky gave a short laugh, of course to him this was only amusing.

 

“Steve’s not my sidekick,” he said, almost redeeming himself of that laugh. “We’re legendary,” he added happily, genuinely happy, and bumped my shoulder with his fist. 

 

“I don’t want to be,” I snapped automatically. I could not imagine that modern Simonville had that many legends to boast, but I certainly didn’t want to join the list together with, oh let’s say, extra fruitful corn harvests. 

 

“Good thing you’re giving it up, then,” Peggy said. “And if you ever start again, learn to spread out a bit more, okay? Don’t go to the same place too often, don’t win too much. Attract as little attention as possible, because if management can’t tell that you’re a pro, that’s when you really are a pro.”

 

“I really don’t want to become a pro either,” I protested, pushing back mixed feelings of horror and nausea at the thought.

 

Peggy smiled, and tilted her head again. 

 

“Forgive me for asking but, you aren’t running some kind of con, are you?”

 

“Nope,” Bucky said, and I shook my head in agreement.

 

“I’ve been thinking about your amazing luck, Steve,” Peggy said, biting her lip.

 

I made a note to ask mom about heart conditions in our family, as my whole chest seemed to do an erratic twist and shout at hearing her say my name.

 

“My theory, and this is very hypothetical all of it, is that you are some sort of walking electromagnetic field and that resonates with the machines. They go into jackpot mode by being close to you; my guess is that even if someone else was playing, as long as you were in the immediate vicinity, they’d win.”

 

I blinked. It sounded slightly absurd, electromagnetic energy, but then again, what did I know about that? It felt like I had been given a medical diagnosis, the first positive one in my life. It also felt as if she had seen through me, and found something no one else had, and the one thought I couldn’t shake was that she obviously had been thinking of me, and come up with this hypothesis. Meanwhile, I had come up with nothing notable by thinking of her, and the only substantial question I had asked was where she was from, and that I got entirely wrong by not paying attention to her accent. In perhaps one of my lowest moments of self-esteem ever, I realized that even Bucky had done better with his assuming she was a pro and asking maybe naïve, maybe stupid but highly relevant questions about gambling. Even when I wasn’t competing, I couldn’t win.

 

“And that, is also why I don’t believe in number reading,” Peggy continued and turned her attention to Bucky instead.

 

“How do you mean?” he asked, frowning from confusion.

 

“Everything’s digital these days, and management can program and reprogram their machines however they want. I mean, jackpots are rare but not  _ that rare _ for that  _ tonto _ Clint to harass you like he did. That machine you were on was probably set not to win anytime soon, or maybe they even reprogrammed it while you were playing. It just wasn’t supposed to start spewing money like that, yet it did. This human force field beat the system.” 

 

She smiled towards me as if I had accomplished a great feat, or had a natural talent. If I now had a special kind of electromagnetic energy, it didn’t feel like either, but regardless I felt the corners of my mouth turning upwards, mimicking her smile. 

 

Peggy slid her jacket off her shoulders again, then put it on properly. 

 

“I have to get going. You have my number if you run into any trouble, in or out of the casinos, okay?” She gave a strong nod, making her hair bobble, and walked around the corner. 

 

I listened to the sound of her heels against concrete diminishing. 

 

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky said quietly and I slowly turned towards him.

 

He looked almost bashful, looking at me through his eyelashes. I felt immediately suspicious.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’ve just fallen in love, haven’t you?”

 

This time I actually, physically reeled and took a step back. 

 

“What? What are you saying?”

 

“With Peggy,” he said, grinning horribly wide.

 

I shook my head repeatedly, but wasn’t able to form any words.  _ Why were we having this conversation! _

 

“Every time she talks, your eyes start twinkling like you’re seeing stars, and then you can barely speak to her.”

 

“That’s not true.”

 

“It is. And your voice is higher.”

 

“It’s not!” (Now, however, it definitely was)

 

Bucky laughed.

 

“You have really poor observation skills, you know that?” he said, slapping his knee. He sure wasn’t feigning his amusement. 

 

I kept shaking my head, trying to force words, any words, over my lips. I could not let Bucky go on thinking this, and I most certainly could not have him leave me speechless.

 

“You’re wrong,” I spluttered eventually. “I do not feel that way about her  _ at all _ .”

 

It wasn’t a very strong defense, but a coherent sentence at least.

 

“Well then,” Bucky said and put on a serious expression. “Give me the box of matches.”

 

I stared at him dumbfounded. It was not at all what I had expected him to say.

 

“What?”

 

“Give me the matchbox with her number. You still have it on you, right? And she gave it to the both of us if we ever ran into trouble. Seeing as you don’t feel  _ that way _ about her  _ at all _ , and I am the one who’s most likely to fight with Clint again, you might as well give it to me.”

 

Bucky smiled wide and evil, and stretched his hand out towards me.

 

Okay, so maybe I did have the matchbox on me! Maybe I had been carrying it around since she gave it to me! Big deal! But despite having put her number down in my phone as soon as I got the chance, I hadn’t parted with the matchbox, and I certainly wasn’t feeling up to handing it over to Bucky. I didn’t care to contemplate why though. 

 

“Can’t do that,” I huffed, knowing that it probably wasn’t going to settle anything.

 

“Please?”

 

“No.”

 

“And why not?”

 

“You’re not supposed to pass matchboxes around between people, it’s bad luck.” 

 

_ God _ , where did that come from?

 

Bucky made a loud “ha!” that was not very different from the slot machine from earlier, except less aggressive and more entertained.

 

“Is that some kind of Nevadan legend?” he asked.

 

“No, it’s a legend from Charles Floyd,” I blurted out. Improvisation wasn’t my forte.

 

“And what do they say will happen if you pass a matchbox around at Charles Floyd?” Bucky enquired, crossing his arms across his chest and stepping uncomfortably close to me.

 

“The, uhm, the Charles Floyd monument will come crashing down.”

 

Bucky stopped mere inches away from me, his face going blank. He straightened up and looked at me for a long few seconds. 

 

“Wow. Wow.” 

 

He repeated the words under his breath and shook his head.

 

“You know,” he began, tilting his head as if he was giving something a great deal of thought, “it would have been better if you had gone with that a plague or something would break out, like the one that killed the actual Charles Floyd? But you really are an out-of-towner, aren’t you.”

 

I stood speechless while he chuckled. Of course I had made that story up right on the spot and it was a complete lie, but Bucky’s concern was ideas to improve it? Why was he  _ like _ this?!

 

He stopped chuckling, and reached his hand out towards me again, this time to pat me on the shoulder, which felt more demeaning than it would have done in many other situations. 

 

“I know they say that love makes people stupid, but you were pretty stupid to begin with, so the stupidity of you in love is boundless: an infinite hell of idiocy.”

 

I stared. It was the most extensive vocabulary I had ever heard Bucky utter. It was also not true, at least not about  _ me _ , any of it, and I really should protest, but how did I do that without proving some part of it right?  _ Ugh _ .

 

“You can keep the matchbox. Come on, let’s go home.”

 

Bucky started waltzing down the street back towards Mack’s garage where he’d parked his bike, and I remained standing outside Bifrost Hall. Slowly, I put my hands in my pockets: in one of them was the cash I’d won that day, in the other Peggy’s matchbox. I swallowed and started following Bucky, without trying to catch up. Incidentally, we were walking in the opposite direction that Peggy had took off in, and I remembered what Bucky had said last time he breached this annoying subject: “I think you’ve been disappointed since she walked away. But I could be wrong.”

  
Bucky could, but for once he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Simonville: the legendarium" is the _Hogwarts: a history_ of this fic and it will (probably) never be written, to Steve's comfort.
> 
> Aaand we're halfway through this fic! Go me! Sorry for the delay in updates, last week was very busy with party planning, cleaning, apartment hunting and then starting a new job today. @_@ I'll try and do better during the second half of posting! <3 If you want other updates from me and/or have questions, you can find me on tumblr.


	13. A Des Moines Symposium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Someone is feeling nervous,” I observed.
> 
> Bucky continued pacing, nodding.
> 
> “What if they say no?” he whispered.
> 
> “What if we don’t even find them?” I countered. “Worry about that first.”
> 
> “That’s not going to make me feel better!”
> 
> “I know.”

_ “I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to better.”   _

**–** **Frida Kahlo**

 

When you wish to distract yourself and avoid certain corners of your own mind, art is both your best friend and worst enemy. This week it chose to be my ally, and I spent most of my free time (which also included all of Mr. Pym’s classes that I habitually skipped with higher frequency than ever) working on my piece for the Howling Commandos exhibition. I’d decided to keep working with watercolors, real ones and not coffee, but the sketching at Denny’s did help and I did a few more before putting the real product on a canvas. 

 

The fated day did arrive, and by 8 AM I was briskly approaching the orange bus stop, glad that I lucked out of meeting any of my teachers that morning. Bucky had arrived ahead of me, decked out in his strange silver sleeved coat and looking fidgety. When I said good morning, he barely grunted in reply and walked around the post in a circle.

 

“Someone is feeling nervous,” I observed.

 

Bucky continued pacing, nodding.

 

“What if they say no?” he whispered.

 

“What if we don’t even find them?” I countered. “Worry about that first.”

 

“That’s not going to make me feel better!”

 

“I know.”

 

He nodded to the cardboard tube I carried under my arm.

 

“Is that your artwork for the exhibition? Doesn’t it have a frame?”

 

“They’ll frame and hang it at the gallery, I only bring the canvas.”

 

During this brief interaction, Bucky had eventually come to a stop, and now stood relatively still. I noticed his chosen printed t-shirt of the day once again carried the words “Sturgis, South Dakota” and then, inexplicably, the trademark logo of Route 66.

 

“You do know Route 66 never passed through South Dakota?” I asked.

 

“What?” Bucky said absentmindedly, eyes trailing down to his shirt when I nodded towards it. “Oh. Yeah, of course I know, they’re not the same thing. Why would you think that?”

 

“I don’t think that, but putting them together on a t-shirt like that does cause misconceptions.”

 

“Well, any biker would know.”

 

“Exactly. So it might not be the best idea for it to appear as if you don’t know that. I mean, Shield might not be so impressed.”

 

Bucky glared and shook his head.

 

“It’s because I want to impress Shield that I’m even wearing this, to show that I’m serious about biking! That I really want to go to Sturgis, and ride along Route 66. They’re both super important places, okay?”

 

“I get the Route 66 thing but… what’s in Sturgis, South Dakota? You’ve worn things with that name on it several times before.”

 

Momentarily, a quiet voice in my head remarked that that was a very thorough observation.

 

Bucky blinked and hesitated a moment before answering. Or rather, not answering.

 

“What’s in… Sturgis?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean it literally, what’s there? To be more specific, why is this place important to bikers?” 

 

Readers, was I being unclear with this simple question?

 

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky raised his voice slightly, as if he was annoyed but also affronted.

 

I shook my head slowly, not following his trail of emotions at all.

 

“How can you  _ not _ know of Sturgis? This is unacceptable, even for a non-biker!” Bucky exclaimed and pulled his hands through his hair, or tried, since it was tied up in a bun as usual.

 

“I am not very familiar with the Dakotas, North or South…” I said, apologetic but not truly sorry. 

 

Bucky sighed deeply and widened his eyes.

 

“Sturgis is the site of the biggest biker’s rally in North America. At last half a million people attend annually!”

 

“Oh,” I said simply. “Well, there you have another reason why I could never join your gang; I know nothing about biking.” 

 

That felt like a good save, but Bucky just looked disappointed and shook his head. The scrappy local bus chose that moment to arrive and I figured that would end the discussion, but of course the first thing that happened when we sat down was that Bucky began a lecture on the history of the Sturgis biker’s rally, that lasted all the way into Sioux City. 

 

We killed most of our transit time sitting in a Caribou coffee shop, where I was intrigued to find that the napkins encouraged painting with coffee to color in their logo. 

 

“It’s like it was made for you!” Bucky chirped, continuously delighted at the serendipity of me in the Midwest. “Did you do your real painting in coffee too?”

 

“No, brown turned out too much of a limited color palate,” I said and shook my head.

 

“Okay. So will I get to see it at the exhibition?”

 

“I guess. I’m only dropping it off today so it won’t actually go on display until the vernissage.”

 

“But we’re going to that, right?”

 

Are  _ we _ , Bucky?

 

“I’m going, of course,” I said. “You don’t have to.”

 

“Of course I have to!”

 

“No, you really don’t have to.”

 

“I want to, stop fuzzing.”

 

I sighed and resigned myself to the idea of Bucky looking out of place at the Howling Commandos, which would be an intriguing culture clash to observe at least.

 

Every other trip I’d made by Greyhound from Sioux City to Des Moines I’d undertaken alone, and had spent them doing shaky pencil sketches and/or listening to the radio and/or podcasts but today I did neither, and instead stared at the identical passing cornfields while Bucky shared a lifetime of bizarre anecdotes from visits to the Iowa State Fair. Election years were, unsurprisingly, a big deal in the Barnes family. (“Mum got to shake hands with the Obamas once, like, way before they were _the_ _Obamas_.”)

 

When we got off, I steered us directly to Grand Avenue where the Van Dyne Gallery was located. Today’s limited opening hours was devoted entirely to preparation for the Howling Commandos, and so it was more crowded than usual with staff and crew registering artworks and moving pieces from the permanent collections into temporary storage.

 

I maneuvered my way past a group of people going in and out the doors, and set my sights at a desk where two women seemed to be ticking people off lists. Bucky walked slowly behind me, turning his head left and right like he had found himself in a completely new and unfamiliar setting, which I guess he had.

 

“Hi, how can I help you today?” a woman with bangles in her ears and a big, round afro said, smiling as if she had uttered the phrase a hundred times already that day. She held a clipboard tight in her hands, one of which appeared to be a prosthetic. 

 

“Hi, I’m dropping off a painting, Piece 54985870.”

 

“Right, that number’s assigned to…” she flipped through her papers. “Me. Can I see it?”

 

I opened the tube and gingerly pulled the canvas out, and she took it from my hands to delicately roll it out.

 

She held it before her face as she observed it for a good few moments, hindering me from deciphering her reactions. She popped her head around the painting and gave me quick look before consulting her clipboard again.

 

“You are Steven Rogers,” she and gave me a different smile than before. “I thought I recognized your style, you’ve participated before, right?”

 

I nodded, impressed with her memory.

 

“In Reno and in Portland.”

 

“That’s right! And now you’re here!”

 

“My family moved to Iowa,” I explained.

 

She nodded.

 

“Hold on just one minute.” She turned around and started calling someone over.

 

“Sir, sir, could I have a moment please?”

 

I followed her instructions and waited, assuming she was bringing over an assistant to hang my piece and make me sign any paperwork. Bucky was still hovering behind me, twisting and turning and looking at the art collection slowly assembling around us.

 

“There’s someone I think you should meet. This is Steven Rogers, sir, he has had works accepted twice before, you remember seeing his coal studies in Portland last year?”

 

The woman was turning towards me again, holding her clipboard in one arm and the other linked with a man’s, a man dressed in denim with round tortoise shell glasses and… and….

 

“I do indeed, and I was sad I didn’t have a chance to meet the artist himself! But here we are at last. Mr. Rogers, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Abraham Erskine, I’m a consultant for the Howling Commandos this year.”

 

He smiled and extended his hand towards me, eyes twinkling and through some knee jerk response I found my own hand being raised towards him. He shook it and that, dear readers, was how I had my first near death experience.

 

_ Sir Erskine! _ Right in front of me!  _ Sir Erskine _ , having  _ heard _ of me!  _ Sir Erskine, shaking my hand! _

 

I opened and closed my mouth a few times, knees shaking so hard they were knocking against each other. I had forgotten completely how to breathe, and could very well have asphyxiated right then and there, if not some words from Bucky had reminded me.

 

“Hey Steve,” he barked, suddenly standing very close to me. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yes!” I piped, eyes still on Sir Erskine. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir! I’m a big admirer, I mean, you are a big inspiration of mine.”

 

“Pleasure’s all mine. Is your friend here another participant?” he asked and turned to Bucky, not ignoring him like I was.

 

“I’m just here for Steve,” Bucky answered. His voice sounded a tad suspicious. 

 

“And that’s reason enough, isn’t it? Misty, can you show me Mr. Rogers’ latest piece?”

 

“Of course, sir,” the heaven sent woman who had introduced me to my biggest idol answered and waved over an actual assistant, who she had entrusted with my painting. The assistant carefully rolled it out and kept it spread out for Sir Erskine to consider.

 

Nervousness was another function I had entirely forgotten in this starstruck moment, otherwise I might have fallen down then and there, or attempted to run all the way back to Simonville. As it was, I remained exactly where I was, not feeling much of anything apart from lightheadedness of meeting Sir Erskine in the flesh.

 

“Ah,” he said. “Ah, ah, aaah.” 

 

He said it in an affirming tone, pointing to different parts of the painting, with Misty nodding every time.

 

“I’m happy to see that you’ve widened your repertoire of colors, Mr. Rogers. This cobalt is very fine! Intriguing use of textures here too, I almost don’t want to ask since the mystery is satisfactory enough, but how did you manage it?”

 

“Those are corn leaves. Aren’t they?” Bucky jumped in to say, head tilted.

 

“Yes,” I replied, not really surprised that Bucky had spotted them. After my short and painful spurt through the field on that gruesome day, the feeling of the threadbare leaves on my skin had ignited an idea in me, how to best preserve that thin, soft yet sharp sensation and I had snuck into the field behind the house and plucked a few leaves, then painted over them on the canvas, ripping them off when the paint was half dry. After repeating the procedure a few times, I was left with this effect.

 

I explained my technique to Sir Erskine, who nodded intently, resting his chin in one of his hands.

 

“I see, I see. Excellent way to incorporate your new surroundings and honoring the Midwestern milieu.” 

 

“Thank you,” I said and was filled with a new and sudden appreciation for the total boondocks I had found myself confined to.

 

“Be sure to get this framed quickly and hung in the right spot; I need to examine it better later,” Sir Erskine instructed the assistant and moved to shake my hand again.

 

“It has been a delight meeting one of our promising artists, Mr. Rogers. I’m terribly sorry to have to make our conversation so short today, but I trust you will attend the vernissage? I will be in less of a hurry then.”

 

“Yes, sir, that would be great,” I said, my voice faltering as I stared at him dreamily.

 

“Wonderful! I hope your friend will be joining us then too; every artist needs moral support when exhibiting a new work!” Sir Erskine said and smiled widely while also shaking Bucky’s hand.

 

Meanwhile, Bucky looked simply confused and refrained from commenting. I could almost accept Bucky being dubbed my friend, if it came from Sir Erskine.

 

Sir Erskine and the assistant with my painting in their hands walked away from us, Sir Erskine firing off instructions about framing and placing of the pieces. 

 

Misty stayed behind and got me to sign the painting in properly, and I was impressed that I still remembered how to write. When we were done and she’d waved me off, I backed a few steps and moved towards the exit, in a daze that almost felt drug induced, oblivious to people around me. Outside on the sidewalk, maybe five or ten feet away from the doors and out of direct sight of the gallery, my legs eventually gave way and I crouched down, head resting on my knees.

 

“Hey, are you okay? Steve, are you okay?”

 

Bucky sounded alarmed, sitting down next to me with a hand on my back, but I didn’t take notice and took a few good moments to answer.

 

“Yes, yes, very good,” I mumbled, my own voice sounding distant.

 

“Who was that guy? Did he say something to you? I didn’t understand all of his art terms but if he said anything creepy I will definitely beat him up for it.”

 

That snapped me momentarily back to reality, and thanks to that classic stupidity that I knew so well, I remembered that I was sitting on a street in Des Moines with Bucky Barnes.

 

“No, he didn’t, and don’t talk about Sir Erskine like that. You may  _ not _ beat him up, for any reason, ever.”

 

“Fine, I won’t. But that’s what moral support means, sometimes.”

 

“This is not one of those times.”

 

“So who was it?”

 

“Oh, only Sir Abraham Erskine, one of the greatest modern American artists, and my biggest inspiration and role model.” 

 

“Oh, wait, your favorite artist? The one who had a painting in Des Moines?”

 

“Yes, that’s him. His painting is in this gallery, but I had no idea that he himself would be there… how could I have missed that he was consulting for the Howling Commandos!”

 

“You never showed me his painting!”

 

I turned my head to look at Bucky.

 

“What does  _ that _ matter?” I asked.

 

“Well, if I’m going to understand why you like and admire him so much, I have to see his work, haven’t I?”

 

“Fine, you can see it next time.”

 

“Next time I’m coming to see  _ your _ work, dumbass.” 

 

“You can look at more than one painting in a gallery at one time,” I said and rolled my eyes. What a misunderstanding of the term “undivided attention.”

 

“Your painting’s more important,” Bucky said. 

 

“No, it really isn’t. But speaking of paintings, let’s go find Shield.”

 

I stood up suddenly enough to feel a slight rush to the head, but it was nothing compared to what I had already experienced, so I ignored it.

 

“What? I thought you said you weren’t going to help me find it.” Bucky remained sitting on the ground, squinting up at me confused. 

 

“I’ve changed my mind. Do you have any ideas where to start?”

 

I was eager to get going, but Bucky took his time rising and kept staring at me with suspicion. I could not blame him for doubting my 180 degrees turnaround, but the adrenalin surge I felt now that the initial shock of meeting Sir Erskine had worn off was making me feel both overwhelmed and almighty – and the providence that had shone on me today could sure bring some luck to Bucky’s quest too, couldn’t it? Anything could happen today, including legends coming true.

 

“I heard someone say Shield’s studio is somewhere around Western Gateway Park,” Bucky said frowning. “So it should be close.”

 

“Good! That’s a good sign! The park has lots of connection to the arts – it makes sense to have a studio here! It’s probably hidden away a bit, but the area isn’t very big so if we pay close attention and comb through the streets we should be able to find it.” 

 

I was bouncing on the balls of my feet now, that’s how jumpy I was. 

 

“Okay,” Bucky said slowly, brushing his hands against his coat. “You know, I think I’d feel better if we never found it, than if we did and they turned me down.”

 

“They won’t. If Sir Erskine himself likes my art, there’s absolutely no logical reason for Shield to not like you!”

 

Bucky looked skeptical, which he rightly should since there was nothing logical about my reasoning there, but he smiled and nodded anyway, and we began walking every street surrounding the park, up and down every single alleyway. 

 

We walked for an hour without finding any clue whatsoever, but I truly felt unstoppable, as if I’d been given some performance enhancing drug that gave me special powers of determination and perseverance. We were definitely finding this bike painting studio. 

 

“We’re taking a break,” Bucky announced and plopped down on a bench. “And we need to come up with a better plan.”

 

“We’re on a schedule,” I reminded him, still standing. “We have to find Shield, argue your case, come to an agreement and still make the bus home.”

 

“Yeah, but we’re not making any progress like this, besides, you’re acting like you’re on steroids.”

 

I sat down and crossed my arms and legs, trying to put on an air of utter relaxation. 

 

“I am simply set on finding this place before we have to go home. The send-off parade is soon and you need to have the painting done quickly, so we have no time to waste.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right but… Maybe we should ask someone. Hey, since it’s art related, do you think we should have asked the folks at the gallery?”

 

I thought it over for a moment.

 

“I guess it wouldn’t have hurt to try, but biker art is pretty specific, you know? And not really connected to art gallery circles.”

 

Bucky took his phone out, tapped the screen.

 

“Still no hits on the Yellow pages,” he said sighing, scrolling through results he’d probably read through a million times before. “When you search for anything bike related it only gives you a bunch of insurance companies.”

 

Impressed that anyone still used the Yellow pages, I tried to come up with alternate searches.

 

“What comes up when you search only for Shield then? Maybe they’re not flaunting the bike connection, disguising themselves as something else?”

 

“More insurance companies, an attorney, a window firm, a comic book shop and a security firm. This sponsored result say something about “Atelier Aegis” but I don’t know how that’s related to my search  _ at all _ .”

 

I snapped my head and leaned over his phone.

 

“What did you say it was called?”

 

““Atelier Aegis,” does that mean anything to you?”

 

I nodded, feeling a rush of excitement I never thought I would feel for anything related to motorcycles.

 

“ _ Atelier _ can mean studio and  _ aegis _ is a Greek word for shield, more specifically a shield worn by Zeus and Athena in the  _ Iliad _ . It’s a synonym for Shield studio…”

 

Bucky blinked and held a blank expression for a few seconds before meeting my eyes.

 

“This could be it,” he said, eyes wide.

 

“I think it is.”

 

“I feel sick,” Bucky said and I realized then that his eyes weren’t wide with excitement, but with terror.

 

“You are  _ fine _ ,” I insisted and stood up. “We’ll go over there right now, you’ll explain to them how much this paintjob means to you, and then we won’t take no for an answer. And by the time Natasha leaves the gang, you’ll have shown her just how much she’s meant to you.”

 

“What if they don’t think it’s worth their time? I’m just a kid from Simonville, who cares about what I want to put on my bike? It’s not even a  _ real _ bike, it’s a scooter and…”

 

Doubt was not becoming on Bucky, and I felt impatient.

 

“Because there are so many other bikers from Iowa who are worth their time, right? Come on, we are not missing this.”

 

I started walking with fast steps back the way we came, trusting that Bucky would, despite his nerves, not give up his tedious habit of following me everywhere and lo and behold, I was right. He came slouching up behind me, muttering.

 

“Fine. But the maps says we’re walking in the wrong direction.”

 

“You lead the way,” I said and spun around, briskly walking up the street again. “I’ll be your moral support.”

  
Now there was a sentence I never could have imagined saying to Bucky but here we were. The things we do for art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Des Moines, the place where dreams come true, etc. etc.
> 
> Haha, so about searching the Yellow pages: guess who actually did search Des Moines for motorbike and Shield related stuff? There's not that much true-to-reality stuff in this fic, but when there is, I've been thorough, haha. Also, Des Moines is (along with Hartford, Connecticut and London) known as the insurance capital of the world, which pleases me, an insurance worker, tremendously. :)
> 
> Steve's assigned number at the gallery is, if someone's curious or very attentive, his army serial number, at least in the animated series! (Which was all Google could give me, and Google has given me _a lot_ for this fic)


	14. An Unexpected Expedition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think this is it,” Bucky said, eyes darting between the address on his phone and the house in front of us. It appeared to be an ordinary apartment building, with a few offices crammed into it, along with a dodgy bar on the ground floor. Above a rather official looking metal sign bearing the title “Nelson & Murdock – Attorneys at law –” hung a seemingly homemade ceramic sign with the words “Aegis Atelier” on it. 
> 
> “Not… really how I pictured it,” Bucky said, putting away his phone.

_ “You think you want to know something, and then once you do, all you can think about is erasing it from your mind.” _

**_–_ ** **_The Secret Life of Bees,_ ** **Sue Monk Kidd**

 

“I think this is it,” Bucky said, eyes darting between the address on his phone and the house in front of us. It appeared to be an ordinary apartment building, with a few offices crammed into it, along with a dodgy bar on the ground floor. Above a rather official looking metal sign bearing the title “Nelson & Murdock – Attorneys at law –” hung a seemingly homemade ceramic sign with the words “Aegis Atelier” on it. 

 

“Not… really how I pictured it,” Bucky said, putting away his phone.

 

“Part of their anonymous approach?” I guessed. “If they are supposed to be legendary, you gotta keep the myth up by being hard to find.”

 

Bucky nodded and took a tentative step forward to buzz the door phone.

 

Two signals rang before a woman’s voice answered.

 

“Good day, my name is Bucky Barnes, of Simonville, outside Sioux City. I’ve come to speak to you about painting, if I could have a moment of your precious time.”

 

He sounded just like he had when he answered my ad in the Simonville Gazette, and it didn’t sound better spoken than it had in writing.

 

The other end was silent for a while, then a woman curtly said “Come on up” and buzzed the door open.

 

Bucky turned to look at me with mixed happiness and disbelief, and I nodded at him to go inside. He did, and we climbed four floors of residential flats before arriving at the one housing Aegis, the law firm and a private investigator. 

 

On the door we had come for hung another ceramic sign, and in the doorway stood a woman maybe ten years older than us with long, black hair.

 

“You the one wanting a moment of my precious time?” she asked and raised an eyebrow.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said, sounding more out of breath than he actually was. 

 

“Is this about motorbikes?” she asked then, which seemed to me a slightly odd way of questioning Bucky’s intentions. What else would it be about?

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said again.

 

She nodded and bit her lip.

 

“Guess you better come in then.”

 

She opened the door and led us down a short hallway and into what was unmistakably a… pottery studio.

 

“So you’ve come all the way from Sioux City,” she said, standing in front of a potter’s wheel with her arms folded.

 

“Yes, I’d very much like to have a painting done on my bike, if you’d be willing to take me on.”

 

“I can’t do that,” she flatly refused.

 

“I know that Shield are masters when it comes to this, and that you take on a very limited clientele, but I really have a reason why I want this painting, if you’re willing to hear me out,” Bucky pleaded.

 

She gave a crooked and short lived smile.

 

“I am a master, but not of bike painting.” She shrugged. “All I know about motorbikes is that the barman downstairs has one.”

 

Bucky just stared at her.

 

“So Shield…” I began.

 

“Doesn’t exist, at least not here. It doesn’t happen often, but once in a while, a biker will show up on my doorstep, raging about Shield. From what I can tell, there used to be a workshop or something with that name down by the Botanical Gardens a few years back, and one day it disappeared mysteriously without a trace. The word on the street is that the place still exists under a different name, and whenever a biker with any knowledge of Greek hear about this place, they think this is it. But it isn’t. Sorry.” 

 

The woman sounded genuinely sorry, but also understandably tired of this misunderstanding. She looked at Bucky with a regretful look, and gave another shrug.

 

“All I can help you with is pottery classes. But that won’t help you with the painting on your bike, will it?”

 

“No,” Bucky said quietly. He looked down at his feet for a moments, before lifting his head.

 

“I’m really sorry that we barged in on you like this, it was our mistake, ma’am.” He moved to shake her hand, and either forgot or couldn’t put on his feigned deep voice like he used to. 

 

“It’s alright, kid. But if you ever meet another biker looking for this Shield place, tell them it’s gone, okay? Don’t send them looking for me for nothing.”

 

“I won’t, ma’am.”

 

“God, stop calling me “ma’am,” alright? I’m not even thirty…”

 

We walked down the stairs in silence, Bucky with his head hanging low.

 

He stopped on the sidewalk outside the bar and looked at the Harley Davidson that stood parked there. It had seemed like a good omen when we first arrived.

 

“It’s a really nice bike,” Bucky said in a feeble and miserable voice. 

 

He stood looking at the motorbike, hands hanging down his sides, and made no sign that he meant to move anytime soon. 

 

“Bucky?” I tried, figuring I might have to fight through his stricken state and drag him back to the bus station.

 

He didn’t answer, but he did put one foot in front of the other and slowly and silently we made our way back to Des Moines Greyhound station.

 

Words of comfort is not a vocabulary I possess, dear reader. I had not had many opportunities to offer comfort, least of all anyone to comfort. Likewise, my own substitute for it was either to work through it in silence or in art, and I concluded that the silence was the preferable situation for Bucky to deal with his momentous disappointment.

 

He barely said a word on the trip back to Sioux City, and didn’t even greet the bus driver on the second stretch into Simonville.

 

“I’m sorry you had to come with me searching for Shield,” he said as we got off at the orange bus stop. “You were right all along that it didn’t exist.”

 

I had been right all along, but the crestfallen way Bucky said it certainly did not give me any satisfaction for it.

 

“I didn’t mind, and I’m sorry I was right,” I said. “At least you tried, right? You’ll never have to wonder about what could have been.”

 

I’m unsure if that helped but then again, my lack of words of comfort was what it was. 

 

“Yeah, I guess,” Bucky said, sounding like he would indeed always wonder about what could have been if Shield actually had existed.

 

He made his way over to his bike parked a few feet away, and waved me over. I didn’t even try to argue, feeling somewhere deep inside that he should have his way with something that day. 

 

We drove back to Grandma’s house with the J-pop at a slightly higher volume than usual, the singers’ voice sounding frustrated and melancholic even if I as usual didn’t understand a word.

 

When I had got off the bike and stood in Grandma’s front yard, handing the helmet back to Bucky, I felt a need to say something.

 

“Hey, Bucky.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“The send off parade is very soon, right?”

 

“Yeah, next Sunday.”

 

“Seven days. It should be enough.”

 

“Enough for what?” 

 

Bucky blinked and I felt my breath catching in my throat. 

 

“Well, how about you let me do the painting for you?”

 

This suggestion might have seemed obvious to you, attentive readers, who were probably thinking “ _ You’re an artist, Steve, you do it! _ ” all along, but you didn’t bother telling me that, did you? And painting a motorbike was not an idea that would naturally have come to me in any other situation.

 

“You do the painting?” Bucky said, eyes wide.

 

I couldn’t tell if his voice sounded positive to this suggestion of not.

 

“I mean, it wouldn’t be like if Shield did it. My skills are probably not on par to what you imagined, and I can’t say I understand how to cater to biker aesthetics very well, but I do know some things about painting so it’d be better than nothing. I’ll do some sketches and you can say if anything fits, and I’m sure Mack can do that airbrush part.”

 

“Are you serious?” 

 

“Yeah, I am,” I said, surprising myself more than him. “So what do you say?”

 

Bucky turned away and stared ahead of him, down the never ending road, biting his lip. He turned his head after almost a full minute and gave me a scrutinizing look.

 

He gave a quick nod and moved as if to drive away, as if the deal was set.

 

“So you’re okay with it?” I asked and stepped forward to stop him, realizing quickly all the doubts I should be having about this.

 

“Yeah. Make sure it says “Thank you, Natasha” in Russian on it, I can text you the spelling later.”

 

“What font do you want, and how big is the text going to be? What colors? How–”

 

Bucky held up a hand and sighed.

 

“Look, if a biker trusts you with their bike it’s a very serious thing, okay? It’s like they’re putting their life in your hands. And if you hand your life over to someone, you don’t start nitpicking about what to do with it, what colors and whatever. Just do it how you want, you’re the artist,” he said.

  
Despite his severe words, he gave another quick nod and a small smile, then turned the ignition and promptly drove away, leaving me staring at him until he disappeared into the fast approaching darkness. Leaving me, as he’d said, with his life in my hands.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How it hurts when dreams shatter, Bucky dearest. And in the Midwestern Hell's Kitchen too, of all places. Let's see if Steve can help with that, shall we?! 
> 
> The J-pop song with the frustrated and melancholic voice is [Killer Tune by Tokyo Jihen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lC8la4l4RhQ).


	15. The Price of Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t know anything about bikes. I didn’t know anything about words, and I really didn’t know anything about the kind of friendship Bucky had with Natasha, and as such, I didn’t know anything about if what I said made any sense. It was just a feeling, the kind that I got from art sometimes, when it spoke to me and made me understand things far outside my normal scope of understanding. Like it was natural and had been inside me all along. Ah, now I’m rambling.

_ “I think a lot of art is trying to make someone love you.”  _

_ –  _ **Keaton Henson**

 

 

If I, an artist, was unsuitable to design artwork for a motorcycle, then as a not medically trained individual, I was even more unsuitable to have someone’s life in my hands. My mother was a certified nurse and could restart a heart, but I could not achieve that even figuratively through art. I tried to tell myself that that was not really my task, that the message of the painting was to express gratitude to Natasha for, essentially, saving Bucky’s life, and not to actually save Bucky’s life. That was not my assignment.

 

Still, the gravity of the situation surely felt to be on a level of life and death and I bugged Bucky for further instructions until he complied and came over to the house.

 

“I’ve made four sketches so far,” I said as he stepped through the gates. “I’m mostly set on one design, and have made two variations of it, but I really need your input before moving forward…”

 

I took the sketch pad off the table and rose to meet him in the yard.

 

“I don’t want to see them,” Bucky said and stopped in his tracks. “I’m only here to answer any questions you might have.”

 

“Of course you should  _ see _ them, then what’s the point?” I said with annoyance. “I’m giving you a say in your commission, have some opinions!”

 

“I trust you. The art people at the gallery did, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

 

“It’s different when you’re producing art for someone rather than just by yourself,” I sighed, ready to explain everything about the role of patrons through art history if I had to.

 

“I still won’t see your sketches. I want to see the finished thing, and only that,” Bucky said and shook his head, eyes pointedly closed. 

 

I sighed and went back to the front porch where I’d been sitting. 

 

“Fine. Questions only,” I said, accepting my fate. 

 

Once he’d had that reassurance, Bucky happily made his way over to me and sat down on the wicker chair on the opposite side of the table.

 

“Natasha, then,” I started. “Anything you can tell me about her? What does she like, what do you think she would like to see on this painting? Anything in particular that, I don’t know, represents her?”

 

Bucky looked pensive for a moment or two, then made an “Ah!” noise and took his phone out of his pocket.

 

“I can show you a picture.”

 

He tapped the screen a few times and held it up to me.

 

“That’s her,” he said and swiped through several pictures.

 

The first one was of the two of them together, arms across each other’s shoulders. They both wore all black, a stark contrast to Natasha’s vividly red hair, short with an undercut and big curls framing her face. The next one was a close up in profile. Natasha was turning away from the camera, smiling, showing off a big tattoo of a spider’s web across her upper back, protruding under a black racerback top and a down jacket hanging loose on her shoulders. The picture was taken in winter, with blinding snow in the background. The third picture showed her straddled across a motorbike, a big Harley Davidson with matte black and red paint. Next to hers stood another bike, a motocross bike in white and green, and on that sat a tall and pale woman with short cropped dark hair, wearing a long navy blue coat. 

 

“Oh, and that’s Maria,” Bucky clarified helpfully. 

 

I nodded, finally connecting the dots that Maria of The Bunheads and my almost-neighbor Maria Hill were the same person. Would my mind ever get accustomed to small town life?

 

“So black, red and spiders,” I said, making my observations out loud.

 

“Yeah, that’s sort of her thing.”

 

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea if the painting reflected that? I mean, the purpose of it is to show how much she meant, so if the image itself reminds people of her, then that’s a plus, right?”

 

“Yeah, absolutely. See, you’ve got this!”

 

Bucky smiled and gave me a pat on the shoulder that surely meant to be encouraging but didn’t make me feel more reassured than before. 

 

Grandma chose that moment to open the kitchen window right next to us and poke her head out.

 

“Welcome back, young Barnes,” she said in a tone that hinted at an ulterior motive.

 

“Hi, Mrs. Fury,” Bucky greeted back.

 

“Say, since I’ve got you here and everything, and you knowing a lot about motorbikes, I thought you could take a look at mine?” she asked, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

 

“Come again?” I asked, turning around in my chair to look at her.

 

“You have a bike?” Bucky asked, almost jumping out of his chair in excitement.

 

“Just an old rusty thing back in the shed, I use it if I need to go any further away than usual, and Maria next door can’t drive me. The engine’s been making this noise for a little while now, would you mind…?”

 

“Not at all, ma’am!” Bucky said, this time actually jumping out of the chair and running off the porch.

 

I stayed in my seat, perplexed at this image of my grandmother, _riding a_ _motorcycle_. Grandma had a driver’s license, and often talked about how she missed driving, something she wasn’t allowed to do since she lost her eye. Now she was the pinnacle of carpooling and, being maybe the most popular senior citizen in the village, there was no shortage of people willing to drive her around.

 

“Well, go with him!” Grandma said and waved a hand at me, waking me from my astonishment. 

 

I did as told and found Bucky standing inside our shed (which was unlocked but then again, this was Simonville and no one would dare to rob Grandma) admiring a pink scooter that I had never noticed before. It was parked in a corner of the shed, and a tarpaulin lay on the floor next to it, so the reason for that was probably that Grandma kept it covered up. (Probably due to the fact that it was illegal for her to drive it.)

 

“This is cool,” Bucky said, which was arguably untrue, but maybe he was just excited to find that someone else drove a lame scooter besides him.

 

“It looks ancient,” I remarked.

 

“It’s vintage,” Bucky countered. “Bikers prefer vintage models, you know, they’ve gone a lot of miles and gotten their fair bit of road dust. Customizing vintage models is the coolest thing, and making really old bikes run again.”

 

He squatted down next to it and started poking it, running his hands along the frame and handles.

 

“It’s old, but it just needs some TLC,” he said and smiled up at me happily. 

 

This boy sure loved bikes, if he finds so much joy from this rusty thing, I thought to myself.

 

We went back to the house and found Grandma waiting on the porch for us.

 

“You’ve taken good care of that bike, Mrs. Fury,” Bucky said, a new layer of respect in his voice. “I’ll bring some tools and oil over next time and have a look at the engine, clean it up a bit. Would that be alright? It’s a nice bike.”

 

“Perfectly alright. Now come on inside and help me with dinner, Sarah’ll be home soon.”

 

My plans for the night had been to choose a design for Natasha’s painting, but I guess another family dinner with Bucky as our guest was meant to come in between. 

 

I did, however, get straight back to work as soon as Bucky (finally) left and drove home that evening. With certain colors and imagery to keep in mind, I ended up combining two of my sketches and bringing new elements into them. After having consulted the internet in different ways I had decided that the text Bucky had given me, “Спасибо Наташа”  was indeed correct and could start developing the typography more. 

 

“What are you working on?” Grandma asked as she came into the kitchen where I was working, to get her usual glass of water before bed.

 

“I’m designing a picture for Bucky’s bike,” I answered without looking up. 

 

The silence that met me made me suspicious though, so I lifted the pencil and looked up to see Grandma smile at me in a very non-comforting way. 

 

“Really,” she purred, and I swallowed hard.

 

“Yes. The leader of his gang is leaving, and he wanted to show his appreciation… I’m only doing this because the artist he meant to ask wasn’t available.”

 

“How thoughtful of you to step in when no one else could.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Because of course, that is the only reason you’re doing this.”

 

I looked up at her again.

 

“That’s what I just said.”

 

“Yes, you did,” Grandma said slowly, raising her eyebrows. 

 

She turned to the sink to fill her glass, then pulled up a chair and sat down beside me.

 

“Is the picture going on the bike? To be painted on?” She asked, tilting her head to try and see the sketch better.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And how are you going to do that?”

 

“Bucky said that Mack, at the garage where he works, can do it.”

 

“Bah!”

 

I looked up to see Grandma looking mysteriously annoyed. I shook my head at her in confusion, and she rested her chin in her hand.

 

“And you think that Mackenzie runt can airbrush better than  _ me _ ?” she said then, which made absolutely no sense.

 

Normally when talking to Grandma, I was apt to say “Pardon?” or “Come again?” but this time I just stared and said “What?”

 

“You heard me. If anybody around here got a real bad scratch on their car and needed someone to do the paint for them, I was always their first choice! Tried to teach Mackenzie everything I know, but he has some miles to go before he reaches my experience,” she said, pride prominent in her voice.

 

“You used to paint cars?” I said incredulously. Sure, there were lots of things I didn’t know about Grandma’s life, but this I would not have imagined.

 

“Sure, I worked on the assembly line for a few years when I was your age, to save up for college. And knowing how to fix cars was a good side job when the harvests were bad, too.” 

 

“Huh.”

 

She rose and refilled her glass, then stood by the sink, looking contemplative. 

 

“You go ahead and finish the picture, and I’ll give Mackenzie a call, have him bring over the equipment we need. Then we’ll paint that bike. Just because Bucky had to settle for you to design the thing, doesn’t mean he should have to miss out on a pro like me,” she said smugly, raising her glass at me.

 

“How thoughtful of you,” I muttered but did as instructed, and kept drawing. It was almost strange how much the inspiration kept me going, but the rule of a good flow is to follow it for as long as you can, and so I did. 

 

After a few hours of sleep, I got up to go to school, but I may have skipped last period to get home early to start properly painting. I decided to use oil pastels, and worried slightly that the effect would not translate well in the transition to car paint, but I pushed that problem ahead of me.

 

I worked in such a frenzy that I rarely, if ever, had worked on any art piece before in my life. I did go downstairs for dinner after mom had shouted at me a number of times, but I barely registered what dish we were having and ran back upstairs as quickly as I could. I painted well into the night and when I leaned back to admire my finished work, it took me a good few moments to realize, with surprise, that the sun was shining. My body was not equipped to nor used to pulling all-nighters, and my last memory before sleep at long last overcame me was staring at the ceiling, as I fell back on the floor.

 

When I woke up, I was tightly tucked in my bed, but still fully clothed, and with the remnants of the oil pastels on my hands smeared across the sheets. I sat up, feeling an ache coming on in my back and my wrists, and fumbled towards the bedside table to find my glasses, knocking over a glass of water in the process.

 

The noise of the glass thumping and rolling across the floor was followed by soft footsteps outside, and my door creaked open as Grandma let herself inside.

 

“Look who has rejoined the land of the living,” she said in a loud and chirpy voice. “You had quite a knock out with that painting of yours.”

 

I had gotten out of bed to pick the glass up from the floor, but at the mention of the painting I straightened up and looked towards the space on the floor where I’d been working. It was cleared and empty, but my eyes didn’t have to wander far to find both painting and art supplies lying on my desk.

 

I made a relieved sigh, and made the mistake of wiping my eyes, smudging more color over myself.

 

“I came in yesterday morning when you never shut your alarm off, and found you sprawled out on the floor. God, you gave me and your mother both hell of a fright there – but you were only sleeping, thankfully. And when I saw the paints and everything I figured that you had stayed up to finish your painting for Bucky, and you had! After all that, we thought it best to let you sleep and not force you off to school.”

 

“Wait,” I said groggily, my voice not fully cooperating yet. “Did you say yesterday morning?”

 

“Yes, it’s Thursday now, dear.”

 

“I’ve been out for 24 hours?”

 

“Well, no one ever said art was easy, did they! Least of all you. Children and artists need their sleep. If you go and wash up I’ll make you some breakfast, you can still make it to school if you hurry.”

 

I simply nodded, feeling no free will to do otherwise than instructed, but I did turn to my desk to have a peek at my accomplishment. Yes. Art wasn’t easy, but it was well worth the effort. 

 

I was less of an attentive student than usual that day, and barely reacted when Sif passed me in the hall and almost knocked me over with one of her usual blunt pats on the back. I almost forgot that the job wasn’t fully done, and remembered with a start to tell Bucky to bring his bike over for Grandma to paint. 

 

He readily obliged (when didn’t he ever?) and arrived before me, parking the bike inside the fence this time. By the time I walked through the gates, he was heading out of them again.

 

“You’re leaving?” I asked, wondering if the sky had fallen down, or the crops been overrun by locusts, or any other calamity that would coincide with Bucky Barnes freely leaving my home without being told to do so by me.

 

“Yeah, you have work to do,” he said.

 

“But… don’t you want to see it?” I asked. “If you’ve just handed over your life,” here I motioned towards the bike, “shouldn’t you be here to… observe it? Keep watch?”

 

Bucky shook his head.

 

“That would ruin it, wouldn’t it? I want to see it when it’s ready, it’s bad luck if I see it before then.”

 

“It is not.”

 

“It is! You don’t know anything about bikes!”

 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, but here we are,” I sighed. “Fine. I’ll call you when we’re done.”

 

Bucky nodded happily, then waved and called goodbye to Grandma.

 

“I’ll fix your bike then, Mrs. Fury!”

 

Bucky started walking and I remained standing with one hand on the gate, with a feeling that something was slightly… off.

 

“Bucky?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“How are you gonna get home?”

 

“I’ll walk, obviously,” he said shrugging.

 

“Isn’t that… very far?” I asked, realizing that Bucky might very well be one of our closest neighbors without me knowing it. I had no idea where the Barnes’ lived.

 

“Everything is far in Simonville, but you still get by. Start painting!”

 

He waved and turned around, walking briskly up the road in the direction of the bus stop, and not the town center, which gave me some clue to whereabouts he was headed. 

 

It was peculiar to watch him leave at such a low speed, and so quietly. 

 

Turning back, I found that Grandma had disappeared into the shed, and I found her there, putting on a military green overall. She tossed me one as well, and took a pair of face masks out of a cupboard (Grandma’s shed was the hiding place for a lot of weird things, I concluded.)

 

“Let’s get to work,” she said, her smile still visible in her eye even if her mouth was covered up.

 

Bucky really had brought a lot of paint, and a number of jars and brushes were placed on top of each other by our front steps. I stepped into the overall Grandma had given me and began choosing the colors we would need.

 

“Thank you for helping me with this,” I said and carried two not-as-heavy-as-I-feared jars over to Bucky’s bike. 

 

“You’re welcome, love,” she said, hands on her hips. “I’m glad to see you doing something like this, so I’m more than happy to help.”

 

She put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

 

“And I’m happy that you have someone to be a good friend to.”

 

My instinctive response was that I was neither being a very good friend, nor  _ had _ Bucky, and I did open my mouth to say as much, but something prevented the words from coming out, whether it was the way Grandma was looking at me or the whole situation that was the cause behind it, I don’t know. Instead I just stood there for a little while, closing my mouth again and nodding.

 

“Let’s finish this,” was what I eventually said and Grandma concurred.

 

As I had expected, oil pastels did not translate, but we were able to recreate a similar effect in terms of structure and brushstrokes. The colors turned out very close to how I’d imagined it, and Grandma was skilled when it came to blending the colors, as with everything. 

 

“I painted your Grandpa’s first car for him like this, you know,” she mused while working, sitting on a stool from the kitchen and leaning close to the bike. “It was an ancient old thing, and ‘til my dying day I will always wonder how he got it to run after all those years. On the outside though, it really looked like an ex-car that had ceased to be, it was brutal! It was a losing battle, getting the rust out but we gave it a good shot. In the end, only I could paint it well enough to look decent, pretty fine even.”

 

“I wish I could have seen it.”

 

“Yeah, son, so do I, and you probably would have if your mother hadn’t driven it into a snowdrift winter of -87. Girl’s always been an awful driver!” 

 

We both laughed at that, and it was pure luck that didn’t make us do any ill-fated mistakes on the painting, like knocking a jar over. Somehow we made it through the whole thing without any such mishaps and by nine o’clock, long after mom had come home and started nagging us to come inside for dinner, we both stood back and admired our work.

 

It really was a great piece of art, even if it was immortalized on such a tacky canvas as Bucky’s customized scooter.

 

“Not half-bad,” Grandma scuffed. She took her mask of and leaned her head back, squinting at the sky. “And no rain in the forecast. Give it the night to set, and you can have Bucky come over tomorrow and give his judgement.”

 

“He might not like it,” I said, only stating fact. Considering how much our tastes differed, the fact that I enjoyed it should mean that he would take the opposite position.

 

“Nonsense,” Grandma said, shaking her head. She turned to me with a wide grin. “That boy will like whatever you put on this bike, even if it’s just a smiley face.”

 

Manners prevented me from rolling my eyes, and I followed Grandma inside to finally get something to eat. Both my eating and sleeping schedule had been rather thrown askew this week, but that’s what being an artist means sometime.

 

I stopped on the porch and looked at the bike again, this time from a distance, mulling over if I should make any further adjustment. Art, like life, is never truly finished.

 

I ended up not calling Bucky until Friday afternoon, and sat down on the porch steps to wait for him. I had brought a pad and pencil with me, thinking I wanted to sketch while passing the time. The image I’d been painting earlier was too stuck in my mind however, and I didn’t manage to put any thoughts together well enough to put down on paper. I filled a page with unintelligible scribbles before Bucky showed up.

 

His arrival on foot (from the bus stop, I hoped) was another thing that felt very misplaced with its quietness, I usually heard him almost a mile away and now here he suddenly stood by the gates.

 

Grandma, ever the dramatic, had decided to throw an old sheet over the back body of the bike where we’d been painting, covering the left and right side with the extended seat back protruding stupidly. Bucky opened the gate slowly and walked carefully, as if he was stepping on hallow ground. I got up to meet him, walking in the opposite manner, trying to put on an air as if I didn’t take notice at all, when in reality it felt as if I was walking up to the gallows to have my work tried on a matter of life and death. Bucky had claimed again and again that he’d put his life in my hands, and now it was to be decided if I had treated that responsibility with care.

 

“This is it,” Bucky said in the smallest voice I had ever heard him use, much higher than I thought him capable of, but he sounded more excited than nervous. 

 

“It is,” I said, feeling the opposite. 

 

Bucky held his hands in tight fists along his sides and made no motion to indicate that he would do anything else, so I took a deep breath and pulled the sheet off.

 

He let out a small “oh” and then stood speechless for a while.

 

I looked at the painting that was almost branded into my hernias by now, trying very hard not to see it as Bucky did. Maybe I had made all the wrong artistic choices, and too many mistakes to be brushed off as creative impulses, maybe it was just… meh.

 

“You  _ did _ this?” Bucky said, in a tone that must be positive.

 

“Yup.”

 

“Holy shit. Just – damn. This is fantastic! I’ve never seen a picture like this, it’s really great. This is beautiful, Steve.”

 

I blinked, feeling slightly unbalanced. 

 

“Thank you,” I said, more of a mumble really, not really knowing what kind of response I was supposed to give, or what I was really feeling at all. I guess I was rather worn out mentally and emotionally by working so hard all week. That had to be it.

 

Bucky began circling the bike, still rather slow and with reverence in his movements, but he was jittery, like he really wanted to run instead.

 

“ _ Spasibo, Natasha _ ,” he read as he admired the right side of the bike.

 

“What does this one read?” he asked as he came around to the left side again, looking at me with full confidence that I hadn’t graffitti’d anything blasphemous on his most prized possession.

 

“It’s, uhm,” I began, but I think I owe you readers a description of the painting itself first before going into the textual aspects. 

 

The motive that had struck me most with Bucky’s story of meeting Natasha had been that of a deserted Iowa road at night time, of her quite literally picking him up by the roadside and urging him to get back on track. So I had painted that, a long but straight grey road surrounded by vague cornfields in pale green and dark gray, with a midnight blue and star speckled sky overhead. Not the most unique motive, but I had worked with the structure to compensate. On the right side, as Bucky had read, two words in Russian were written in a matte blood red paint,  _ Спасибо Наташа _ . On the letters in Natasha’s name I had painted a finely woven thread of a silver spider’s web. Of course, with the left side painting being an exact mirrored version, it was too asymmetric to leave it wordless. I had momentarily thought about asking Bucky if there was anything else he would like on his bike, some stupid biker phrase about the soul of the road, or any gibberish like that, but I scratched that idea, not only because it had been in the middle of the night. Instead I thought about the motive of that road at night again, of the want Bucky had felt to follow her that led to him turning his whole life around. I was an artist of pictures, not words, but even if I was no poet, I should be able to express that image in some textual form. When I did think of a phrase, I had it translated into (hopefully correct) Russian and painted it on the left side. To go along with Natasha’s web, I painted small silver stars in these red letters, mimicking the painting on Bucky’s coat sleeve.

 

“It’s Russian,” I said needlessly. “I needed a text for the left side as well, and thought I should try and write something that you would want to say to Natasha, apart from just thank you, which frankly are two rather lightweight words with not a lot of depth. So, uhm. It says “Until the end of the road.” Because that’s… I mean, because you would follow Natasha there, even if you are going in different directions now, you will always be there for her like she was to you.”

 

I didn’t know anything about bikes. I didn’t know anything about words, and I really didn’t know anything about the kind of friendship Bucky had with Natasha, and as such, I didn’t know anything about if what I said made any sense. It was just a feeling, the kind that I got from art sometimes, when it spoke to me and made me understand things far outside my normal scope of understanding. Like it was natural and had been inside me all along. Ah, now I’m rambling.

 

I looked up to meet Bucky’s eyes, which were fixed on mine, wide and surprised, but not angry or disappointed in my initiative, not negative at all. His mouth was slightly open, but it was turning into a smile.

 

“Now I really owe you a whole lot. It’s, it’s really perfect. It almost feels too good for me, like it wouldn’t be okay for me to ride this…”

 

“It’s your bike,” I said. “That’s why I did it, so you can’t stop using it now.”

 

Bucky laughed.

 

“I couldn’t do that if I tried, and besides, I really don’t want to. I mean, my bike has never looked this good.”

 

He gave a look as if he was considering what to say next very carefully, then gave a small shrug that seemed to say what the heck and took a step closer to me, and grabbed my shoulder.

 

“I don’t think Shield could have done a better job,” he said, his voice thick.

 

“They are, or should I say were, professionals, so of course they could.”

 

“No, I don’t think they could.”

 

“And I don’t think you know all that much about art.”

 

“I don’t.” Bucky grinned and remained his grip on my shoulder. “This painting was exactly what I wanted even if I didn’t know it, and I know Natasha will like it too. Damn, I really do owe you an awful lot, don’t I?”

 

“No,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “The only thing you owed me was the money I lent you, and you gave that back when we didn’t find Shield. And you should have had that money to begin with.” 

 

“Nah, this is worth more than money,” Bucky said then, looking at the bike again, his eyes shining. “This is worth going to the end of the road for.”

  
And at those words, for some reason, some small worried voice inside me took its moment to point out  _ And you can’t even drive, Steve _ , which I decided to shake off and ignore, not only because it didn’t make any sense. This was about Bucky and Natasha, I was not going to the end of the road for or with anyone. I had only made sure that Bucky would arrive there on a bike that looked slightly less hopeless than before, but that would still make a ruckus and play obnoxious music. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE THINGS WE DO FOR ART, right? 
> 
> Also, please take a moment's pause from all the ~art emotions~ to picture a teenage Grandma Fury working an assembly line in Detroit in the 1950's. And what she would have looked like, coming home at harvest season. [A lot like this](http://tokyodarjeeling.tumblr.com/post/125182161542), I imagine.


	16. Love in the Time of Corn Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I turned forward to look out over the river, the green riverbank, the pink roses and the light blue afternoon sky. It was a pretty corner of Simonville and as we all know, pretty hurts.

_ Books shine like suns, _

_ And sparkle as thus _

_ While we read the books, _

_ The books read us. _

_ Can books read people? _

_ Of course, without a fuss _

_ How else could they know _

_ Everything about us? _

_ –  _ **_Lennart Hellsing_ ** _ (own translation) _

  
  


After another family dinner that featured Bucky as the guest of honor, during which he made sure to gratuitously thank Grandma for her work on the bike, and Grandma rewarded him for his manners by telling stories of all the things she had taught Mack about engines (I zoned out of this conversation rather quickly, both due to boredom and my inability to understand the terminology), Bucky drove home on his new and improved motorbike, ready for Natasha’s send-off the next day.

 

He promised to tell me how it went, and late Saturday night I heard the distinctive and familiar sound of roaring engines, only this time there were six of them. I never saw the Bunheads driving past, but I heard them several times that night and came to the conclusion that the whole thing had been a success. 

 

My art fatigue was still strong by midday Sunday, when Bucky called.

 

“Hey, do you want to meet up today?” he asked, a pointless question at this point.

 

“Sure,” I said, an equally pointless answer.

 

“Okay, you know Deep Creek?” he said, referring to a small river not far from here that passed through the farmland.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Just after it passes under the road west of you there’s a riverbank, do you know it? It’s only a fifteen minute walk or so.”

 

“I don’t, but I’m sure I can find it. Why though? You can just come here, or I can meet you at Denny’s.”

 

“No, I want to go. I’ll see you there,” Bucky insisted and promptly hung up on me. 

 

I didn’t find the energy in me to wonder at this strange behavior, and just dragged myself off the coach. 

 

Passing Grandma in the kitchen on my way out, I thought it best to ask:

 

“Deep Creek hasn’t got anything dangerous in it, has it? Like mutated farming experiments gone wrong?”

 

Grandma looked up from her crossword puzzle and looked at me with a bemused expression.

 

“That would be yourself then, seeing as your whole family has swam in it at some point,” she said. “Might still be a bit chilly to take your maiden swim right now, though.”

 

“I wasn’t planning to, thanks.”

 

I did grow slightly worried that that was what Bucky had in mind, however, and walked over there ready to make a run for it if that was the case.

 

A bridge had been built over the river and as I crossed it, I realized that I had never been in this direction before. I spotted Bucky’s bike parked by the side of the road and walked towards it, crossing the road. Bucky himself was sitting high up on the riverbank, elbows resting on his knees, looking out over the water and sky reflected in it. Along the water’s edge pink flowers were blooming. It must be one of the most picturesque corners of Simonville, and I made a mental note to return here to draw it later. 

 

I knew Bucky must have heard me coming, but he didn’t turn around or say anything, so I just sat down next to him without a word. Looking over, I found his face pensive. 

 

“Was it a good parade?” I said eventually.

 

“A great one.”

 

He was quiet again for a while.

 

“I think it’s nice to come here sometimes, by the river. Those are wild roses, they’re pretty hard to find,” he said and pointed. He sighed. “Yeah, the parade was a success. Everyone really did their best to give Nat a good farewell, several people had gotten customization work done on their bikes and clothes… Skye got red dip dye, the same shade as Nat. But of course, none of it was like my painting… everyone was really impressed with it, and if you’re ever feeling up to it I’m sure they’d love to have you paint their bikes as well.”

 

“I’m going to have to pass on that, thank you very much.”

 

“That’s what I thought you’d say, so I said you had made an exception just for me.”

 

“And? What did Natasha say?”

 

Bucky nodded, his eyes shining like they had done on Friday.

 

“She was really stoked. She looked at it in silence for a long while, especially the left side with the end of the road stuff… and then she said “That kid I found crying by the road has grown into a fine man” and hugged me, and I never wanted her to let go. When she did, she said a few things and we took a final group picture and then, well, it was time to get the parade itself going.”

 

Here Bucky elapsed into rambling a lot of numbers that meant nothing to me, road numbers to be specific, but for you and me both, dear readers, it was sufficient to say that they drove around Simonville and Turrington.

 

“There’s something special when you’re riding together like that, everything goes faster and is just  _ more _ . We stopped further up the river, and set off some fireworks to celebrate Nat getting married, and she thanked us for doing this for her and being such a great team…”

 

Bucky stopped to take a deep breath, staring straight ahead. 

 

“Then she said that she couldn’t get married to someone without showing them this, and that’s when this woman steps out of the shadows. I always knew that Nat’s fiancée must be a really cool person, so that kind of entrance was fitting. And yeah, she is cool. Nat introduced us, they had a long distance relationship before so that was why we’d never met her earlier but… I had.”

 

Bucky made another pause to breathe, and his eyes darted over to mine momentarily. He looked reluctant to go on, and I didn’t understand why. 

 

“I had no idea who she was then, but it makes sense. Nat said that she never felt scared when they were together, and that the strongest woman she’d ever met was someone she wanted by her side for the rest of her life. And that… certainly sounded like Peggy.”

 

Bucky’s words sunk in slowly and with a sting of pain I remembered the spider tattoo on Peggy’s neck. It fit into a pattern now. 

 

I must have startled, because Bucky jumped a little too. He looked sad, and worried, and had turned to look me in the eye now. 

 

“I see,” I heard myself say. I was not aware of saying it, I was too preoccupied with the sudden outburst of swirling thoughts in my head. I felt dizzy.

 

I turned forward to look out over the river, the green riverbank, the pink roses and the light blue afternoon sky. It was a pretty corner of Simonville and as we all know, pretty hurts.

 

I kept staring at it though, despite the pain, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed that my eyes were watering if Bucky hadn’t said anything.

 

“Cry as much as you want,” he said quietly.  

 

“But don’t let people feel sorry for you,” I managed, not sobbing too hard.

 

“Right. But there’s nobody here to use it against you. And for every tear, you grow that much stronger.” 

 

He was only repeating Natasha’s words, but I knew he meant them. But there is nothing strong about failed first loves, not really, and that was part of the reason it hurt so much.

 

I sniveled. 

 

“I can’t. I was never that strong to begin with, so it doesn’t matter.”

 

I pushed off my glasses, lowered my now blurry gaze to the small patch of dirt in front of me, and kept them there, but I felt Bucky’s eyes on me. He moved slightly, bumping his shoulder into mine, so slightly that I couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not.

 

“It doesn’t matter what you were before, it’s about what you’ll become.” 

 

Deep conversations weren’t Bucky’s thing, he was instantly lost without Natasha’s words to guide him. I tried to chuckle, but it came out as a cough.

 

“That’s not why I’m crying now, not any of it,” I said.

 

“Maybe not. Point still stands.”

 

We sat in silence after that, and just as well. If Bucky had continued to try and comfort me, it might have made me feel a little better, but emotional anguish should not be brushed off so easily. When people discover an easy way to alleviate emotional pain, they can lose something very important. I did not want to happen to me.

 

“No, the point is,” Bucky said then. “I do think you’re strong already, but you can always get stronger.”

 

I sniveled again, this time wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

 

“No,” I said with determination, and managed to steady my voice somewhat. “I’m not. I'm weak. That’s why I need to pretend to be tough. If I let myself be as weak as I am, on the inside, there'd be nothing left of me after a while. I think people are often too easy on themselves, and that only makes it worse. I need to be tough on myself because I'm weak. It doesn’t mean that I actually am tough.” 

 

Bucky snorted.

 

“That means you’re pretty strong in my book, at least,” he said.

 

It was surely nothing but wishful thinking, but in that moment I decided that Bucky’s book might not be so wrong or bad after all. 

 

When I came home that night, I had made sure that I had wiped away the last traces of tears, and waited long enough for any swelling around my eyes to subside. The walk home alone served a good purpose that way. I found myself repeating to myself as I trotted along the roadside that I had grown stronger now, even if I didn’t really believe in it I did admit that it was rather comforting. I wasn’t reluctant to show mom or Grandma that I had cried, but I didn’t want to have to talk about it anymore. It felt like I had talked enough.

 

Coming in, I met my mother on the stairs, carrying a large cardboard box in her arms. For one bewildering moment, I thought it was one of Grandma’s boxes of pleather.

 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

 

“Sorting through my old things. Found a bunch of stuff that I’d stashed away in the attic when I moved out.” 

 

I followed her into the living room, where she put the box down on the sofa table and almost ripped it open. She glanced inside and then looked up at me, face full of anticipation. 

 

“And in this box we find – books!”

 

Mom knelt beside the table and started emptying it: worn paperbacks with bleached covers and yellowed pages, a few plastic coated hardcovers stolen from/never returned to libraries and a small pile of composition notebooks. She put them in piles on the floor and I sat down beside her.

 

“You can take whatever you want, I had good taste in books as a kid,” she said.

 

I grabbed the first titles that drew my attention: an Everyman’s Library edition of  _ Beloved _ with an innumerable amount of filing stickers lining the pages, and a paperback of  _ The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes,  _ which she seemed to have annotated in the same way. I had read  _ Beloved _ before of course, when I was twelve and tried to make my way through the Nobel Prize winners and had found that only a few of them could live up to Morrison. 

 

“Oh, my plays!” she exclaimed next, lifting three books bound together by a yellow silk ribbon. She put them down in her lap momentarily and looked at me as if trying to remember something.

 

“Did I ever tell you that I did a year of English literature at Iowa State before going to nursing school in Nevada?”

 

I looked at her, bafflement evident on my face.

 

“I had absolutely no idea,” I answered. 

 

Mom shrugged and looked down at her books.

 

“I did. This box are all the books I brought home after that year.” She pointed to one of the books enclosed in plastic, more specifically at the label saying “Iowa State University Library.” It was  _ The Queen of Spades _ by Pushkin. 

 

“Did you drop out?” I asked, curious that I’d never heard this. “What happened?”

 

“I didn’t mean to drop out. I loved what we were studying, especially this drama class I took, and I made friends quickly but, the timing wasn’t right I guess. I was too restless and I felt like I couldn’t stay in the same place for too long. I went home for the summer, and then never went back. Good thing I’d taken all the books with me.”

 

She untied the ribbon around the books in her lap, then turned towards me again.

 

“How come you decided to go to Nevada of all places?” I asked then. I knew that mom had moved there for college, and then stayed, but now I realized there was more to that choice.

 

“I know it sounds too clichéd to say it, but I think I felt that I had a calling, you know? I wanted to do something less abstract than the arts, and help people. Nursing seemed like it might be a good fit, and so I applied to almost any school I could find. I chose Nevada eventually because of the low tuition.” She cupped my cheek in her hand. “Then I met your dad and had you, so in hindsight I know I went to the right place, for sure.” 

 

She looked down at the books in her lap again, unable to keep her eyes off them.

 

“I think you would have loved this class as much as I did. Post-war drama, the professor really played us, and had us start out by reading Pinter, Beckett and Ionesco, and they are not really plays for beginners, you know? Made us frustrated rather than theatre fans. Then she did a complete turn and gave us these three plays instead:  _ A Raisin in the Sun _ ,  _ A Taste of Honey _ and  _ In the Summer House _ . It really opened a new world for me I think, as far as reading goes. I’ve only seen _ Raisin  _ performed, but they sure are great plays all three.”

 

She reached towards me as if to give them to me, but stopped and pulled back her hand.

 

“You know what? I’m going to re-read these myself before I pass them along to you.”

 

“It’s not as if you don’t have enough in here to keep me occupied for a while,” I said and looked at the piles in and out of the box.

 

“You want to read my old books, then?” mom asked and smiled warmly.

 

“Of course. I can’t remember you introducing me to any art that was  _ bad _ .”

 

Mom laughed, and I felt the corners of my mouth twitching too. 

 

“Great taste is hereditary in our family, that is true,” she said. “I think you rub off on me a great deal, too. But let’s see, what should I put first on your reading list…”

 

Through the years, mom and I had read a lot of books together. Like many others I’m sure, we had made Oprah’s Book Club a family pastime, reading all titles she recommended (passing only on Jonathan Franzen, for obvious reasons).

 

Setting aside her beloved plays, mom looked through the books still left in the box, lifting each one up carefully and weighing it in her hand. 

 

“Ah,” she said eventually. “ _ Ah _ . This one might do the trick.” 

 

She placed a thin paperback in my hands and I looked at the cover. It was in black and white, title and author name in a white serif font on a black background with a drawing that had maybe been done in charcoal; the profile of a woman with cloth wrapped around her, intermingled with hills and tall grass.

 

“ _ Desert of the Heart _ , Jane Rule,” I read. I had never heard of the title or author before.

 

“It’s set in Reno,” mom said and took the book back before I had time to read the back of it or protest against the setting of Reno.

 

She flipped the pages, this book was also annotated by her it seems, but with dog ears instead of post-its. She found the page she was looking for, chuckled and began reading:

 

_ “Reno’s no worse than anyplace else, really. If you want to find mistakes, you don’t have to come here.” _

 

I nodded.

 

“You read that and decided that it was the place for you, then?”

 

“You were always so enamored by your birthplace,” she said, nostalgia in her voice. “No, that wasn’t why I decided to go to Reno, even though I became curious of the place after reading this. But in all seriousness, I think it made me realize that no place is ever as good or perfect as we imagine it to be when we’re not there. And nowhere is as awful as we like to think it is when we’re stuck there. That’s true for both Reno and Simonville.” 

 

Mom was the person in the world who knew me best, and I knew she knew perfectly well how I felt about both these places that I had come to live, she did not have to read the descriptions that I’ve given you, dear readers, to understand exactly how I talked about them. And being the wise person that she was, she saw through it too.

 

_ “One thing he taught me, one thing Reno taught me is that conventions can be a kind of trap,”  _ she continued reading off the same page. 

 

She closed the book and put a hand on my knee. 

 

“ _ Desert of the Heart _ is a love story, a great one, and it deals a lot with conventions. There are so many, but I do agree that mostly all they do is trap you, and hinder you from doing what you want and should. Like fears; they’re just made up to limit you. Moving all the way to Reno taught me that too, that I could do and be more things than people thought or expected to me. Do you know what I mean?”

 

I nodded slowly, and it felt like I did understand, but as if understanding was coming over me slowly, and in pieces that I was putting together with some difficulty.

 

“There are more conventions around love than anything else, I think,” she continued. She had slowed her pace, as if deliberating every single word, but she still sounded surer of herself than before when she spoke again. “What’s real and not real, when it works and when it doesn’t – love can hurt, hurt a lot, but it can also heal. It’s got to heal. That’s how you can tell if it’s real, by what it gives you after it has taken things away.” 

 

She cupped my face in her hand again, the other still on my knee.

 

“It sets you free, instead of trapping you, you know?”

 

Without noticing when, tears had sprung up in my eyes again and began spilling over. I tried to answer, but my lips began to quiver so I only nodded instead. Mom kept her hand on my face but she didn’t wipe the tears away, just pulled me close to her and hugged me. 

  
I sat in my mother’s arms and thought to myself that I would grow that much stronger for every tear. For every love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to tumblr user hauntinflauntin who sent me such a LOVELY message about Simonville, sorry for this, the saddest/emotionally worst chapter in this whole story. I feel bad for inflicting it on you, dear reader! But thank you again for the love, and if anyone else want to talk to me, I'm TokyoDarjeeling over on tumblr too!
> 
> The longest notes ever coming up, sorrrryy, this is how I am with books.
> 
> The verse quoted at the beginning is by famous Swedish children’s author Lennart Hellsing, who’s sadly not widely translated, so I had to make do on my own. Most Swedes can recite at least a few of his rhymes. The original verse is: _“Böcker ska blänka som solar, Och gnistra som tomtebloss. Medan vi läser böckerna, Läser böckerna oss. Kan böckerna läsa människor? Det kan de förstås. Hur skulle de annars veta, Allting om oss?”_
> 
> SO, SARAH’S BOOKS Y’ALL. The plays were taken straight off the course list of a course that I myself took on post-war drama, haha. They were, in order:  
>  _The Room_ and _The Birthday Party_ by Harold Pinter,  
>  _Rhinoceros_ by Eugène Ionesco,  
>  _Happy days_ and _Krapp’s Last Tape_ by Samuel Beckett.  
>  _A Taste of Honey_ by Shelagh Delaney,  
>  _Raisin in the Sun_ by Lorraine Hansberry  
>  and _In the Summer House_ by Jane Bowles.  
>  We also read _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ by Tennessee Williams I see now looking back at the list, but I’d blocked it out while writing Simonville, haha. Sarah’s point that the male written dramas were all awful and the female written were great is SO TRUE, please allow me this self insertion, okay? I also recommend reading Toni Morrison, Langston Hughes, and Alexander Pushkin, if you’re ever so inclined.  <3
> 
> You might remember _Desert of the Heart_ by Jane Rule, it was quoted in a chapter before! A good book and lesbian classic. It’s going to show up again because ~plot. I bought it last year for €5 in a the great Books Upstairs shop in Dublin, who have a great LGBTQI section! It said “lesbian” and “Reno” and I just went for it! Knew straight away that I had to put it in Simonville. 
> 
> Some geographical info: Deep Creek is an actual river, close to Remsen, Plymouth County, where I’ve placed Simonville. Directions are as always thanks to Google Maps.
> 
> Last but not least: all hail Oprah Winfrey, and screw Jonathan Franzen, seriously.


	17. The Sciences of Love, Explaining Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simonville Public followed the same year schedule as Charles Floyd, which meant that Bucky enjoyed the same liberty and some of this time he spent with me. Working on Grandma’s bike, tweaking it and repairing rust damages, had become a pet project of his and compared to our earlier dealings at Strange’s Saloon, Bifrost Hall or Denny’s, I much preferred this where I could sit on the porch drawing in peace, and Bucky out in the sun in the yard with the bike, only bothering me from time to time.

_ “A book can teach you, a conversation can assure you, a poem can seduce you, a genius can inspire you but only you can save yourself.” _

–  **Anthony Anaxagorou**

 

As the month of June came around, the temperature rose and the days grew longer, and the plants of summer were in full bloom, and of course, into this idyll all the youth of Iowa were let loose to roam free across its fields and prairies. The school year ended and I passed all my classes with ease, bar a few exceptions (I did surprisingly well in biology. Mr. Pym seemed not to have noticed my frequent absences). 

 

This liberation meant that I had time to go out and search for more forgotten corners of Simonville, places where I could work on my scenery sketches undisturbed by nothing except my oversensitivity to pollen. There weren’t many such corners, you will be unsurprised to know, but I drew many a pictures of Deep Creek during the first few weeks of freedom. Pretty is a type of pain you can get used to.

 

Simonville Public followed the same year schedule as Charles Floyd, which meant that Bucky enjoyed the same liberty and some of this time he spent with me. Working on Grandma’s bike, tweaking it and repairing rust damages, had become a pet project of his and compared to our earlier dealings at Strange’s Saloon, Bifrost Hall or Denny’s, I much preferred this where I could sit on the porch drawing in peace, and Bucky out in the sun in the yard with the bike, only bothering me from time to time. I also had my mother’s small college library to work my way through. 

 

“So if your mom grew up here, then that means that your grandma always lived here?” Bucky asked one day while he was changing the tires on Grandma’s bike.

 

“Correct.”

 

“Then how come you had never been to Simonville before? Did you never come visit?”

 

I gritted my teeth, feeling an unwanted flashback coming on.

 

“I have, when I was really small. But we didn’t have much money, so Grandma usually came to see us instead.”

 

“How was it when you visited here, though? Didn’t you like it? The Midwest is great when you’re a kid.”

 

That fleeting memory of running through a cornfield that I mentioned briefly earlier was indeed a good memory, but only because it was so fleeting. If I concentrated harder and brought the rest of it back, the nostalgia wasn’t as peachy. But since he asked, and since you readers are surely intrigued to know, I will let you and Bucky both indulge in my childhood squalor.

 

“Grandma took me to a picnic with her bridge friends,” I said. “There was a corn maze, and sure, that was fun. But then there was the picnic itself. I remember eating this desert, this desert  _ salad _ with… cream and apples and Snickers, which no matter how you combine it should be downright disgusting but I ate it anyway. Of course I threw it all up shortly after and we went home.”

 

Bucky grinned stupidly. 

 

“Snickers salad! It’s not disgusting at all but yeah, it does make you throw up sometimes.”

 

“Combining things you like to create something you love is an intricate art form, and neither Snickers nor salad are very good candidates for such an endeavor,” I couldn’t help but protest. I knew that I was never going to win that argument with a native Iowan, but I had to make my stance on this matter clear. 

 

“You’re wrong. But what you’re saying basically is that your only memory of Simonville as a kid is throwing up? No wonder the place makes you sick.” 

 

I couldn’t even be bothered to roll my eyes at that pun, and only shot Bucky and his delighted grin a half-assed glare.

 

“It’s not my  _ only _ memory,” I admitted grumpily. “Just a very prominent one. It was good to visit Grandma. She took me home afterwards, and made peppermint tea. And she braided my hair, “cornrows that’ll make you remember Grandma’s cornfields…””

 

“That sounds nice.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Does this mean that there’s a lot of other Midwestern cuisine you haven’t tried?”

 

I gave a slight shudder at this use of the word “cuisine.”

 

“No, I have been spared by the providence of my mother, who loves me too much to ever further expose me to atrocities such as Watergate salad.”

 

Bucky laughed.

 

“My dad tried to do that too, to my mom when they first moved here. He once tried to convince her that glorified rice was  _ haram _ ! Joke’s on him now, mom always gets to make the glorified rice for potlucks since hers is the best in town. I’ll tell her to make it for you when you come over.”

 

With no disrespect to Bucky’s mother, I made plans to never come within reach for that to ever happen. I was the kind of Iowan immigrant who would not be swayed by rice, crushed pineapple and whipped cream. 

 

“What is this fascination with eating literal  _ goo _ ? And by mixing cream with conserved fruit?” It was an honest question.

 

“Hey, not everything we eat here is a desert,” Bucky said, not really defending himself against my claims. “Like Lutefisk! Sif makes amazing Lutefisk.”

 

“And what is that?” I asked, feeling slightly afraid of anything cooked by Sif.

 

“Swedish fish, like actual fish and not the candy. It’s good!”

 

“I seriously doubt that.”

 

(Later, I googled Lutefisk and decided that my doubt was well-founded.  _ Yuck _ . It did fit my goo theory perfectly, too.)

 

I returned to my book then, and Bucky to whatever it is one does when changing a tire (What? What possible meaning would it have to me if I learned anything about such a mundane task?). I knew he had a meeting with the Bunheads that afternoon and that he therefore would grace dinner with his absence. 

 

The next time I looked up, he appeared to be getting ready to leave, kicking the new tires softly with the tip of his shoe to make sure they… were alright, I guess (I already said that there was no point in learning!).

 

“What are you reading?”

 

Bucky had spotted the paperback in my left hand.

 

“Mom has been going through her stuff from when she was a kid, this was apparently one of her favorites when she was a teenager.”

 

“Is it good?”

 

“Eh.”

 

“What’s it about?”

 

“Lesbians in Reno.”

 

Bucky’s face went sort of blank, as if he was momentarily surprised and moved.

 

“Oh,” he said. “Are you reading it for me?”

 

I squirmed a little, because that was a peculiar question.

 

“Uhm. No?”

 

“Oh,” he said again but apologetically this time. “I just figured, since all my friends are lesbians and, yeah. D’you mind if I borrow it when you’re done? The gang will probably like it.”

 

I said nothing to his request, just stared at him dumbfounded. Dear Bucky, I wanted to tell him, if I wanted to read anything for  _ you _ then wouldn’t a book about motorbikes, presidents, Iowa, growing up an army brat or corn be a better choice? My silence was starting to border on the awkward, so Bucky spoke again.

 

“And you know, since you’re from Reno it’d be good for me to read it, you know?”

 

He smiled, showing almost all his teeth. Was this…  _ guilt _ that I was feeling? Because if Bucky read  _ Desert of the Heart _ it wouldn’t be for himself, or his gang, no, he would definitely read it for me.

 

“Yeah… yeah, sure. I’ll hurry up and finish it then,” I heard myself saying without consciously planning to.

 

He nodded without breaking his too-cheerful smile and waved as he turned to his bike, and driving off as he always did to the usual tunes of Skye’s mixtapes.

 

I bit my lip. Books about the Japanese music industry would also suffice, I thought.

  
I did hurry up to finish the book after that, fueled by that maybe-guilt I had been feeling. I was lying on the living room couch when I closed the final pages, and mom who was just getting ready for a night shift saw me doing so.

 

“You finished it,” she said, buttoning up her cardigan.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And? How did you find it?”

 

I appreciated that she didn’t ask directly if I liked it or not, because not only did I lack a direct answer, I didn’t really know. It had been one of those books that didn’t ask you to like it, that had a different purpose.

 

I shrugged, gathering my thoughts.

 

“Difficult,” I said, forming some of them into words at least.

 

Mom nodded and crossed her arms.

 

“Difficult subject,” she said and smiled mildly. 

 

“Not really. It’s an easy story I think, things just unfolded naturally, at ease…”

 

“Yeah, but those are the hardest stories. The ones where things just comes easy to people. It’s not that easy in our own stories, is it?”

 

She raised an eyebrow slightly, broaching the subject very lightly. I looked away from her and down on the book. When your son has had his heart broken by a girl (as I eventually ended up telling her, talking be damned), maybe the obvious course of action wasn’t to hand him a love story about girls who heal each other’s hearts – but maybe that was what I needed to read then. I couldn’t claim to know better myself, and I trusted my mother with this matter as much as I did with everything else. So far she had never let me down, this instance included. 

 

“Yeah,” I mumbled eventually. 

 

“I’m off then, sweetie, I’ll see you in the morning,” mom said and came up to kiss me on the forehead. She was carpooling with one of the nurses tonight, Claire.

 

“Hey, mom?”

 

“Yes?” she answered halfway out the room, one hand on the doorframe.

 

“Do you need this back right now?”

 

“Why?”

 

“I mean, I said to Bucky that I’d lend it to him, so…”

 

Something passed over mom’s face that I couldn’t quite catch, and she jerked her head ever so slightly. She smiled then, making me forget to wonder about what her initial reaction had been.

 

“Sure you can, sweetheart. I hope he enjoys it as much as you.”

 

She waved as she left, and once I’d heard Claire’s car driving away I got up after her to lock the door. It wasn’t particularly necessary in this almost empty neighborhood, but I guess it was one of those conventions that I’d picked up from living in the city, and one I was still trapped in.

 

No matter how long they were, the summer days of June passed quickly and the day came when I had to remind Bucky that I was going to Des Moines for the Howling Commandos opening. Of course, he had not forgotten in the slightest and replied to my text nonchalantly with: “Yeah I know, I bought us bus tickets last week.”

 

The Des Moines Art Festival is best described by the word “huge,” since it draws a crowd the size of Des Moines’ entire population and as such, the area around Western Gateway Park would be alarmingly packed. I would need to return the other two days to catch all the things I wanted to see, but today’s agenda was all focused on the Howling Commandos. The first time I’d exhibited there in Reno, I had been crippled by fear, but the atmosphere there had since calmed my nerves significantly. Of course, that meant absolutely nothing now that I knew that Sir Erskine was involved, and that he would be in attendance today as well and what’s worse, would be expecting me to talk to him. I felt in no way verbally equipped for that, and so it was in a heavy silence we made our way into Des Moines on the faithful Greyhound.

 

“I finished the book,” Bucky said casually as I stared down the passing scenery, trying to lose myself in their repeating patterns.

 

“Which book?” I asked absentmindedly, having completely forgot that I had lent him one recently.

 

“ _ Desert of the Heart _ . I liked it, even if it was sad.”

 

“Oh,” I said, catching on. “But it ended happily. Evelyn stays with Ann in Reno.”

 

“I know, but I meant everything up to that. Kind of made me worried, in a way.”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Well… It’s scary to think that you could go your whole life being unhappy because you were too scared to get that happiness. Evelyn’s whole life is kind of scary, isn’t it? She really did everything according to what she was supposed to, and not what she wanted. She didn’t even know what she wanted! And Ann as well, she probably would have ended up the same way. It’s scary when people are so afraid of something that they make that fear come to life. They were afraid to love, and ended up loving nothing. And that just gave me a horrible feeling in my gut, because you can’t help but worry that that will happen to you, right?”

Bucky had been staring straight ahead as he said this, pulling threads out of the seat in front of him. He turned to me as he finished speaking, that worry he spoke of clear on  his face. 

 

“People are cowards in the face of happiness,” I said.

 

“Huh?”

 

“It’s something my mom told me once. That it takes more courage to snatch happiness than to endure unhappiness. I guess she meant something along the lines that you can’t  let fear stop you from being happy.”

 

Bucky nodded solemnly, and said:

 

“Yeah. And I mean, can you imagine if you lost the life you wanted not because of what someone else did, but because what you  _ didn’t _ ? That you were the one responsible… that’s the scary part about growing up, huh? That at the end of the day, you’re responsible for what happens to you.”

 

“At least part of it.”

 

“A lot of important parts of it.”

 

We sat in silence for the greater part of the trip after that conversation, both occupied with our own thoughts I supposed. I had begun to feel a strong inkling that my mother had had an ulterior motive in giving me this book to begin with. 

 

Once arrived at our destination, we ended up walking around the festival area itself in order to get near the Van Dyne Gallery, which was also filled to the brink with people, even though its official opening time was 30 minutes away. 

 

Misty, the assistant who we’d met last time, spotted me in the entrance and squeezed her way up to me, unceremoniously grabbed my arm and dragged me with her to a back room, Bucky doing his best to keep up.

 

“I’m glad you made it before we opened!” she said. “I don’t want to be the person in charge of handling the queue. DMAF is crazy, isn’t it? But it’s fun that we’re here this year, even if I’ll be working most of it… here, let’s get you a name tag.”

 

“Name tag?” I asked in surprise. 

 

“Yes, all exhibited artists must wear them, or well, unless they’re anonymous but please don’t be that boring, Steve.”

 

“It just seems a lot more serious than what I remembered from the show in Reno…”

 

“Oh, well it is. We’re putting on a bigger show now for the festival, and Abraham’s involved. He takes a lot of things very seriously,” she said and pinned a metal oval with my  name in Bodoni font to my shirt (as Bucky had already observed when we met at bus stop earlier, I was wearing plaid for my big day). 

 

I nodded, not daring to argue with someone who was on a first name basis with Sir Erskine.

 

“Would you like to see where your piece is hanging?” Misty asked, squeezing my arm and sounding as if she was asking a small child if they wanted to open their Christmas presents. 

 

“I do,” Bucky answered for me, which resulted in Misty grabbing his arm as well before she began to plough through the crowd. 

 

My painting was on the second floor, not far from where  _ Aqua Sol _ was usually placed. Surely that meant nothing in the planning arrangements, but to me it held a certain significance.

 

“It looks great here, in a real frame in a gallery,” Bucky observed when we stopped in front of it.

 

“Doesn’t it?” Misty said.

 

To me it looked exactly the same as it had done when I finished it, packed it and delivered it, it looked the same as it always had, despite having gone through several sketching and drawing stages. It was too familiar to me at this point, but there was that added significance of being in a real frame in a gallery, close to where Sir Erskine’s work was usually on display. Close to where Sir Erskine himself would be on display.

 

“Steven,” the great artist said calmly as he appeared to my left side. “Are you happy with the placing?” he asked, seemingly out of real concern.

 

“Ah, yes, very,” I mumbled in response.

 

“Good. And good to see you again, too!” He said and nodded towards Bucky, who smiled back. “Can I steal him from you for a minute?”

 

“Sure,” Bucky said and shrugged, a bit surprised that he was being consulted about this (as was I).

 

“I’ll have him back in a moment,” Sir Erskine said, nodding reassuringly. “Walk with me, Steven.”

 

When Sir Erskine moved through the room, people seemed to step away without being asked, and I hurried along after. 

 

“As I mentioned before, I was much impressed with the structure of your painting, Steven. It reminds me of decalcomania, but with a new material,” he said as he eyed other works hanging on the wall to his left.

 

“Yes, I’ve been inspired by how Kusama uses it,” I replied.

 

Sir Erskine clapped his hands together and spun around, looking mischievous.

 

“Ah, a Kusama admirer! So am I, she’s simply marvelous. But I shall get right down to business. I am doing some editorial work later this summer, and I’ve been feeling inspired by  _ you _ . But I thought, why not go straight to the source?”

 

He smiled and blinked, still holding his hands together in front of him.

 

“Uhm, the source?” I repeated.

 

“Yes. It’s a photography project and I need a backdrop to shoot against.”

 

“Right.”

 

Sir Erskine blinked again and clasped his hands.

 

“Steven, I would like to commission you to paint that backdrop, using the same technique as you did in this piece. I will give you a color palette to work from, but other than  that you have free reigns. Would that be possible?”

 

He looked down at me through his tortoise shell glasses and I think, for the first time, I really had a sense of understanding for the tired conception of losing yourself in someone’s eyes – because his words surely did not compute.

 

“I’m sorry?” some bewildered and still coherent part of me asked.

 

“I have full understanding if you are preoccupied with other projects, or your education, and I might be able to postpone the deadline if that’s what’s bothering you, but I really hope you will say yes, Steven.”

 

It was my time to blink, repeatedly, and the coherent part of me began asking more questions.

 

“You want me to… paint for  _ you _ ?” I said, in not my most eloquent moment.

 

“Yes,” Sir Erskine replied, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

 

“But…  _ me _ . I have very limited experience, especially of editorial work and…” 

 

Sir Erskine waved a hand to silence me (and actually said “Tut tut”). 

 

“Relevant objections at some time or another I am sure, but not in this case. It’s your artistic ability I am interested in, not your curriculum vitae. So Steven, will you do it? Of course I don’t mean to take your mind of the exhibition, so you can take some time to consider, but I would love for us to reach some agreement before I leave Iowa.”

 

Here Sir Erskine gestured with his hands once again, stilling them by placing them on my shoulders. 

 

What was it my mother always said about big chances?

 

“I’ll do it,” I squeaked, before I had time to change my mind. “I’d be honored, sir.”

 

“Ah, marvelous!” Sir Erskine exclaimed. It did not pass me by that that was the same word he had used to describe Kusama. “I will give you as much detail as you will need before you leave today, but I want to give you plenty of room for your own vision, so think of them as guidelines rather than instructions, if you please. Now though, I believe we have a vernissage to hold.”

 

He looked down at his wristwatch, and spun me around towards the staircase. I was thankful enough for that, seeing as I needed all the support I could get after a shock like that.

 

The Howling Commandos in Des Moines certainly attracted a bigger audience than two years earlier in Reno. A collage of faces and voices directed at me blurred together, and somehow I was able to properly converse with all of them. I’d pass Misty and Sir Erskine at times, and Bucky of course, but the rest passed by in a frenzy. I eventually sent Bucky out to look at some other part of the festival, rather than spending a whole day looking at this miniature selection of modern American art when there was a plethora of it just outside the door. 

 

By late afternoon I was swaying on my feet, feeling exhausted, but pleasantly so: I hadn’t been this intellectually challenged since I arrived in Iowa. 

 

Sir Erskine appeared at my side again, holding several pages of handwritten notes about the painting I was about to do, but he wouldn’t let me read them. Instead he shoved them inside an envelope that he urged me to take a look at with fresh eyes in the morning. I could only do as told, and then made my way to Misty to hand back my name tag before I left the gallery.

 

In a zig zag pattern I squeezed my way through the crowded entrance and walked headfirst into the wall of thick, humid Midwestern summer weather, shocking me more than it should but in my defense I had spent several hours in a dry and air conditioned space.

 

I had texted Bucky to meet me outside and so I descended the steps slowly, looking from side to side as I pulled my backpack on.

 

“Steve!” he called, waving from the other side of the road. The pockets of his coat were protruding clearly and oddly but after a few seconds of discussion with myself I decided it was better not to ask, and so we set off toward the bus station.

 

As I lay in bed late that night, fretting too much about Sir Erskine’s assignment to possibly give in to sleep, I felt my phone stir on the nightstand.

 

“Found my favorite quote in the book,” Bucky wrote. “ _ Fidelity to any human place, except the heart, seems to me a dubious thing. _ ” 

 

It had obviously not made the same kind of impression on me, since I barely remembered it. Before I answered, Bucky wrote me again:

 

“It’s a good thing to remember, right? That if you’re gonna stay true to something, it’s gotta be something you really care about.”

 

“Not much point otherwise,” I wrote back.

 

“Exactly. And if you do care about it that much, it’s bound to be worth the fear, right?” he wrote next, referencing our talk on the bus earlier that day.

 

But being worth the fear was the most fearsome thing to me. When you’ve tried hard not to find anything, or rather any _ one _ , worth that fear, it’s natural to feel afraid when they appear out of the blue, against all your precautions. 

 

Of course, I didn’t write any of that.

 

“You shouldn’t have to fear the things you love,” I wrote instead.

 

“Nah, but people are cowards in the face of happiness, right? And I think you gotta fear things you love a little bit, because they’re precious to you.”

 

There is a quote by John Irving about writing that starts out  _ “If you don’t feel you are possibly on the edge of humiliating yourself, of losing control of the whole thing, then what you’re doing probably isn’t very vital.” _ I used to look at it from time to time in relation to art, as a sort of therapy against nerves. It was very relevant right now in terms of the work I was going to do for Sir Erskine: of course I felt like I was standing on a cliff’s edge with utter humiliation and disaster ahead of me, but I was only standing on that edge because it was so important to me. And maybe one could argue that Irving’s advice was true for people as well, if they didn’t instill that same fright in you then they probably weren’t very vital to you. 

 

“I have to work on my bravery then,” I typed back quickly before I could stop myself.

 

“You’re already brave in my book,” was the immediate response.

 

I put the phone away and turned over, thinking that there might come a day when Bucky Barnes was right about something, but it wasn’t today, and it wasn’t about me.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Steve y u so stupiddd” - Hanna, at the end of this chapter.  
> 
> This will be the only chapter this week, I’m going away on a work trip tomorrow and won’t be back until late Sunday night, just a heads up!
> 
> Oh Midwestern cuisine, so _moist_. I’m horrified, intrigued and super pumped to try it one day. Loving your children too much to expose them to traditional local food is definitely a thing my mum has done as well, haha. So much traditional Swedish food, “husmanskost”, that I haven’t tried that my dorm mates asked where I was “really from” lol. This of course includes Lutefisk, SERIOUSLY DEAR MIDWESTERNS, why would you keep that tradition going?
> 
> Speaking of  ****“cornrows that’ll make you remember Grandma’s cornfields…”, did you know that until July 1, 2016 it was illegal to braid Afro hair commercially in Iowa without a cosmetology license?! In order to get said license you had to train in using chemicals, dye, etc, none of which is needed when braiding hair. Furthermore, this training does not usually cover hair braiding! You can read of[the struggle to repeal this unjust law here](https://mic.com/articles/128329/how-iowa-became-the-new-battleground-for-african-hair-braiders?utm_source=policymicTBLR&utm_medium=style&utm_campaign=social#.GujjeZbSW) and [here](http://www.omaha.com/news/iowa/women-to-drop-lawsuit-on-hair-braiding-in-iowa-amid/article_2e714f06-3bba-11e6-9fc6-fb127ce5dfec.html). In part thanks to a civil lawsuit from the Institute for Justice on behalf of braiders Aicheria Bell and Achan Agit, [the law was overturned](http://preview.blavity.com/braiding-hair-without-license-no-longer-illegal-state-iowa/), but braiders in [other states across America](http://www.forbes.com/sites/instituteforjustice/2015/10/30/braiding-hair-risks-heavy-fines-even-jail-time-in-iowa/2/#172e95c41228) face similar problems, like in [Arkansas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_epy-K2J80). If you live in a state that systematically discriminates Afro hair braiding, please get in touch with your representatives and demand a change!
> 
> I too am a Yayoi Kusama admirer, and I researched her techniques (among them decalcomania) when I saw her retrospective _In Infinity_ that’s been touring the Nordic countries. She really is marvelous. 
> 
> The usual tunes of Skye’s mixtape is today summed up by [Super Shomin Car by Cecil](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfqPcMH0GrE), from the Kamikaze Girls soundtrack!
> 
>  


	18. Bonjour Folie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer in Iowa was blistering, heavy and damp, and it smelled like burning. Naively I first believed this to be a strange case of fragrant heat, until Grandma helpfully explained that it was ladybugs being burnt alive on outdoor lamps. A savage land, this was. This was all just another reason to stay indoors and dedicate myself to the arts full out.

“ _If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?_ ”

  
―  **T.S. Eliot**

Losing yourself in your art is supposedly easier when in a place with minimal distractions, and so Simonville would be the perfect location to have a secluded studio. In the case of yours truly, the studio was only my bedroom, and in the short time it had been my bedroom, I had already got a lot of work done. And while I had had school and Bucky to interfere when making my piece for the Howling Commandos and Bucky’s bike, there was now oceans of time to paint for Sir Erskine. His notes and further correspondence since DMAF had told me that the editorial work in question was a fashion shoot for a magazine, and my painting would be the background against which the models would pose. It was not really a place where I had ever imagined my art to end up, but I figured it was a creative twist of fate.

 

Summer in Iowa was blistering, heavy and damp, and it smelled like burning. Naively I first believed this to be a strange case of fragrant heat, until Grandma helpfully explained that it was ladybugs being burnt alive on outdoor lamps. A savage land, this was. This was all just another reason to stay indoors and dedicate myself to the arts full out.

 

Bucky did continue to barge into my life, but slightly less frequently. He took more shifts at Mackenzie Motors during the summers, and the gang meetings had increased as well. One day when he came around, he asked to see more of Grandma’s pleather collection.

 

“Haven’t you been through it enough times?” I asked, striding across the dried out lawn towards the shed.

 

“Yeah, but it’s not for me or the gang, it’s for the new members.”

 

“You have new members?” I asked, intrigued to what could possibly have brought this on. Surely there couldn’t realistically be more wannabe bikers in the vicinity that they hadn’t yet snatched up?

 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, biting his lip. “We’re kind of merging with this other gang.”

 

“A biker gang  _ merger _ ,” I said and stepped into the shed, reeling back from the stuffy heat inside. 

 

“It’s not as impressive as it sounds.”

 

“It doesn’t sound impressive at all.”

 

“There’s this other gang in Turrington, and Maria went to middle school up there so she’s friends with their leader. And when Maria became our leader after Natasha left, they  suggested we join the gangs together.” 

 

Bucky stepped in through the door, looking down on his feet, sighing slightly. Scrutinizing his face, I could tell that he wasn’t as chirpy as usual when talking about the Bunheads.

 

“You seem ecstatic about this new development,” I said and folded my arms. (I immediately unfolded them; it was too warm for any kind of body contact, including with myself.) 

 

Bucky sighed properly this time.

 

“Yeah, well. I liked it when it was just us. I don’t dislike the Turrington girls, but it’s not the same, you know? Anyway, I’ll get over it.”

 

I processed the word “girls” for a moment.

 

“You’re telling me that there’s not one, but two all-female biker gangs in the county?” I asked.

 

“Well, only one now.”

 

Bucky squatted down and stretched his neck, apparently deciding on which box to start digging through first.

 

“I figured that it might bring us closer together if I brought some gifts. And with these clothes, they’ll match the rest of us. Strengthens team morale and all that,” he said and  smiled, opening the box labelled “coats.”

 

Quickly going through the pre-existing members of the Bunheads in my head, I felt urged to argue that none of them dressed remotely the same. Even if they all lacked style and class, it was all in very individual ways. 

 

“What are the new girls like?” I asked.

 

“Well,” Bucky shrugged, “I haven’t really talked to them much. They all go to your school, and I don’t know Pierce that well, mostly know of her, you know.”

 

“Who’s Pierce?”

 

“What?”

 

“Who’s Pierce?”

 

“You know.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“You don’t–” Bucky began to laugh but stopped and stared at me. “Steve. Are you for real telling me you don’t know Pierce? Alexandra Pierce? The Pierces’?”

 

“What’s the point in repeating a name I haven’t heard before,” I said shrugging, on the inside feeling a soothing delight that I was still a novice when it came to Simonville celebrities. 

 

“Wow. It’s like you live under a rock sometimes,” Bucky said, pulling apart two indiscernible pieces of pleather that had almost melted together.

 

It was too warm to argue that accusation, besides, I thought it was pretty clear by now that I had no wish to crawl out into the Midwest open.

 

“The Pierce family owns a bunch of land around here, almost all of it. They grow soy, one of the biggest manufacturers in Western Iowa, crazy rich. Alexandra is probably the richest teenager in the state, and she’s an only child, so she’ll inherit all of it,” Bucky explained.

 

“And this soy heiress is a member of a biker gang?”

 

“The leader of a – or, well, co-leader of a gang, yeah.”

 

If our story was ever adapted for the screen, there would need to be some sort of jingle called “Only in Iowa” played over scenes like these. 

 

“I don’t want to put a dent in your friendship making plans but… there might be a chance Pierce won’t appreciate clothes like these,” I said, nudging the nearest box with my toe.

 

“Why?” Bucky asked bewildered.

 

Because they’re ugly, I wanted to say, but rephrased it to have more relevance.

 

“In my limited experience of rich people, they tend to go for a different… style,” I said.

 

Bucky frowned.

 

“These clothes are all stylish,” he said, classically misunderstanding.

 

“Doesn’t Pierce dress differently than the rest of you?” I tried again.

 

“No. She also dresses like a biker.”

 

Again, going through the Bunheads original roster, there was no set “like a biker” denominator that stood out to me, apart from the different variations of ugly and tacky. 

 

“Okay, then,” I said nodding.

 

“Biker fashion is like art, it can look very differently but it’s still art. Got it?” Bucky said and smiled, standing up with a bundle of various items in his arms.

 

“I get it,” I said, appreciating and yet not agreeing with the custom made reference Bucky had just made. I nodded to the clothes.

 

“You can just take those for free, I don’t really need the money anymore. Or the clothes. So come back for more if they go down well.”

 

A little surprising, Bucky accepted that without a fight, and we both ventured out to the slightly less stuffy outdoors.

 

“Speaking of going well, how’s the commission?” he asked, excitement in his voice.

 

“I’m watching the paint dry,” I said, in all sincerity. “A bit difficult with the heat and the damp, everything takes longer.” 

 

“That gives you some time off though! We need to start planning for your birthday!”

 

When your birthday coincides with the biggest national holiday of the year, you don’t plan your celebration, rather the other celebration plans and executes  _ everything _ . That was how it had always been, even if I had had to prepare myself for the unavoidable regional differences between a Nevadan and Iowan Fourth of July.

 

“Who’s Abraham?” Grandma demanded as we stepped through the front door.

 

She had taken one of the wicker chairs off the porch and sat under the ceiling fan in the living room, a glass of grapefruit juice in her hand and a bucket of ice-water on the floor to soak her feet in.

 

“Abraham Erskine is the artist I am painting a piece for,” I answered. “I don’t know any other Abraham’s.” It felt like an odd moment to inquire about this.

 

“He’s on the phone with your mother,” Grandma said, pointing to the kitchen with her glass.

 

It was an unexpected answer to an unexpected question.

 

“He’s what?” 

 

Surely I must have misheard, and looked at Bucky to confirm that I didn’t just hear Grandma state such a thing.

 

“He’s on the phone with your mother,” Bucky instead repeated.

 

“It has something to do with Chicago,” Grandma went on, loudly sipping her juice and looking calm as ever.

 

“Oh no,” I said.

 

“What’s with Chicago?” Bucky asked, sounding interested and concerned. “Is it something bad?”

 

“I have no idea what it’s about but logically I can only assume the worst.”

 

Chicago, the Windy City, most populous area of the Midwest, went in my mind from being a rather unknown place to which I had no connection, to a place filling me with a sense of dreadful foreboding. What  _ was _ with Chicago?

 

Following Grandma’s directions into the kitchen, I found mom leaning against the window frame, nodding along to whatever Sir Erskine had to say. She must have felt my intent and terrified gaze, because she turned towards me and smiled, then mothed a hello to Bucky behind me.

 

“I think I will hand the phone over to him now so you can explain it yourself, Abraham,” she said and a moment later made real of her intention to give me the phone. She smiled encouragingly and I stared at her in bewilderment. What kind of casual relationship had they formed during this short telephone conversation?!

 

“Steven,” Sir Erskine sang as I took the call. “There has been some, well, significant change of plans.” 

 

The plan, which had now been significantly changed, had gone like this: the Monday after next, I would have my two canvases rolled and packed and delivered to the post office in Sioux City, where they would be picked up by special courier and brought to Sir Erskine’s Brooklyn studio.

 

“How are the paintings, time wise?” Sir Erskine asked tentatively.

 

“Ahead of schedule,” I answered truthfully. The thought that he might be calling to move my deadline was not appealing, though.

 

“Wonderful, wonderful. So much ahead that they might be finished… next week, perhaps?”

 

“I guess so. I could finish them this weekend.” Sir Erskine could want them done tonight and I would find some way to make that happen.

 

“Pfft!” he said. “No working on your birthday, if you please, Steven!” he chastised. I assumed mom had told him.

 

“But let’s say you have them done next week. Do you have any other pressing plans for Friday?”

 

“Absolutely none.” 

 

“Absolutely  _ splendid _ , I think. You see, we have moved the photo shoot to Chicago, and as you are only the next state over, I was wondering if you would like to join us? Your mother has already given you permission to travel.”

 

I spun around on my heels and stared at mom who was standing next to Bucky. She seemed amused by my surely horrified facial expression, while Bucky looked slightly worried.

 

“I…” I began, urged on by mom who was nodding intently.

 

Join Sir Erskine at the photo shoot? Watch him work? See my paintings used in his work?

 

“I…” I tried again, while mom started to look impatient.

 

“The next state over” was indeed true, but the “only” was very much an exaggeration. It must be 500 miles from here!

 

“Yes, Steven?” Sir Erskine’s smooth voice asked.

 

“Yes, sir, I would very much like to join you, I’m just concerned with the travel distance,” I spluttered.

 

Was… was mom shaking her head and waving her hands dismissively at me?! It  _ was _ a concerning travel distance, just how poor were her geography skills?!

 

“Oh, that has already been seen to, Steven. We will fully fund your flight to Chicago. And your friend Bucky is most welcome to come, if his parents’ consent to it, of course.” 

 

I turned from my mother, who had anyhow obviously gone mad, to Bucky and tried to take in the ridiculous thought of us two in Sir Erskine’s studio. It was too outlandish to imagine. 

 

I heard mom give a frustrated groan, and she stalked off out of the kitchen, to appear again a moment later with grandma ushered in before her.

 

“I…” I said to the phone again, Sir Erskine seemingly not deterred by my vocal disability today.

 

To my alarm, grandma didn’t speak to me, but to  _ Bucky _ .

 

“That Abraham wants to take Steve and yourself with him to Chicago for the photo shoot with Steve’s paintings,” she said, pinching Bucky’s arm.

 

“Really?” Bucky asked, looking… proud? “That’s great, Steve!”

 

The confederacy of dunces was having their national convention in grandma’s kitchen, it seemed.

 

“That would be… great,” I found myself agreeing on the phone anyway, the lack of caution in the room contagious. 

 

“It truly would!” Sir Erskine said. “Please give Bucky’s parents contact info to Misty in Des Moines, and I will call them up as soon as I get the chance.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Perfect. I will call again as soon as all the arrangement’s been taken care of. Until then, have a magnificent birthday weekend!”

 

I kept the phone to my ear after he hung up, staring at the three excited faces in front of me. 

 

Mad, I tell you, the world had gone mad in Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but ~things are happening~ soon in this fic. Maybe the only chapter this week as I’m moving this weekend and somehow working Sunday @_@. But I'll try to get another one up.
> 
> I don’t know what burned ladybugs smells like but any article, list or post about Midwestern summer mentions one thing and one thing only: THE BURNING, so. Until next time, burn on, kids.


	19. The Declaration of Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our nation’s birthday, and mine, took place on a Saturday this year and all the inhabitants of Simonville had these exciting options of celebrations: a local town fair in the city center featuring the combined musical forces of Charles Floyd and Simonville Public, and a fireworks display by Deep Creek. My family had planned a barbecue at home in the afternoon, after the town fair at which Grandma had a strange obligation to provide water balloons (I did not ask). Bucky and the rest of the Bunheads were also to be in attendance, since Sif was doing her final band performance as a senior. She played, to my mild surprise, the recorder.

“I am aware that I am less than some people prefer me to be, but most people are unaware that I am so much more than what they see.”

**― Douglas Pagels**

 

Obscuring controversial or commercially unpopular scenes or events in literature with ellipses: simply not writing them out, is an ancient and common scheme among writers to either get away with including them in the first place, or get away with not having to write them. In tradition to this widely accepted method, would you, my dear and attentive readers, be willing to accept if I chose not to disclose the celebrations of the Fourth of July this year that you happen to be following the events of my life?

…

I expected nothing less of you, diligent and stubborn as you are, but an artist can dream. 

Shortly after my phone call with Sir Erskine, I had indeed provided Misty at the Van Dyne Gallery with the contact info of Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. (This had seemed to be outside her usual duties at the gallery but when I mentioned that, she informed me that she was Sir Erskine’s agent in the Midwest, a position I envied her very much.) They had readily agreed, Mrs. Barnes even offering to drive us to the airport.

But before you feel the need to remind me, yes; I am getting ahead of myself. 

Our nation’s birthday, and mine, took place on a Saturday this year and all the inhabitants of Simonville had these exciting options of celebrations: a local town fair in the city center featuring the combined musical forces of Charles Floyd and Simonville Public, and a fireworks display by Deep Creek. My family had planned a barbeque at home in the afternoon, after the town fair at which Grandma had a strange obligation to provide water balloons (I did not ask). Bucky and the rest of the Bunheads were also to be in attendance, since Sif was doing her final band performance as a senior. She played, to my mild surprise, the recorder.

“But I’ll come straight to your house after that!” Bucky assured me over text.

I turned to Grandma who was sitting next to me in the yard, filling red, white and blue balloons with water from an inflatable kiddie pool.

“Did you invite Bucky over today?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Of course I did. And since you’ll be seeing him in a few hours, you have no reason to not put that phone away and help me fill these up,” came her stern reply.  

She had been in a much more positive mood earlier that morning, delighted to be able to offer me breakfast in bed on my birthday for the first time in years. Her gift had consisted of several yards of new canvas, since she’d noticed that I’d used up everything I had this summer. Mum continued her bookish theme this year with  _ Welcome to Braggsville _ by T. Geronimo Johnson and  _ Walking with Shadows _ by Jude Dibia. After this splendid breakfast everyone had to get to work, mum with preparing the food and me and Grandma with the balloons that I couldn’t fathom the use of.

“There we are, should be enough. There’s always a bunch of the red ones left anyway,” Grandma said and wiped her hands on her Capri pants. “Just help me load these into the basket on the bike and you’ll get some well-earned time off.”

“The bike?” I said and grabbed her arm as she began to rise, with no little tone of alarm in my voice.

“Yes, Bucky’s got it up and running perfectly now, there’s no reason why I should demand someone to drive me into town when I can do it myself,” she answered calmly and shook off my grip.

“ _ Grandma _ ,” I said but hesitated. It’s insensitive to remind someone with one eye that  _ they only have one eye _ .

“Yes, dear?” she said in her sweetest voice.

“Is that, uhm, well, perfectly safe?” I asked, choosing my words carefully.

“You don’t trust in Bucky’s motor skills?” she said with an arched eyebrow. “You really need to put more faith in that boy.”

“Oh, it’s not that. I have complete faith in his motor skills.” (Which was very true!)

“Well then, why wouldn’t it be safe?”

I sighed and rose to the challenge.

“Grandma, are you legally allowed to drive it?” I said, putting it as delicately as I could.

“I’m legally allowed to do whatever I please with my means of transportation. Sarah really raised a city boy, hasn’t she?” She laughed and patted my shoulder. “I can drive just fine, but thanks for the concern.”

I couldn’t remember ever winning an argument with my grandmother, and I readily admitted my defeat at that. I got up and helped slump all the balloons in the large basket at the front of her pink bike. It didn’t seem to be part of the original design, but no one understood the practice of attaching too big additions to the steering wheels of scooters better than Bucky, and he had made sure it was securely fastened.

With a certain kind of terror I had not felt before I watched Grandma drive away without a care in the world, the scooter’s motor sounding surprisingly fine and well-tuned. Not that I could really tell, but Bucky seemed to have done a good job. Unfortunately so, because now Grandma was  _ driving _ the damn thing, sigh.

After an hour or so of helping mum in the kitchen, the all too familiar noise of an approaching scooter drifted in through the window, and with greater relief than usual I found that it wasn’t Bucky, but Grandma, safely returned in one piece.

“It’s a good thing Bucky got it fixed just in time,” she hummed with delight as we set the table on the porch.

“In time for your reckless driving?” I muttered while keeping my focus on folding the star spangled napkins mum had found on sale at Costco.

“For your birthday! You’re definitely old enough to learn how to drive now.”

I looked up.

“A car,  _ yes _ , a scooter,  _ no _ ,” I answered quickly. 

“See any cars around here?” Grandma said and pointed into the fields with the cutlery in her hand. “If you’re anything like your mother, I wouldn’t trust you with four wheels anyhow. Two, that would be enough for now.”

“Grandma, I am  _ not _ –”

“It’ll either have to be me who’ll teach you, or I’ll get Bucky to do it,” she said in what was surely supposed to be a threat. Joke’s on her though, because…

“He at least has got a license to drive!”

She smiled with her whole face.

“Point exactly.”

If she could, Grandma would without a second’s doubt join the Bunheads, but as that was too ludicrous even for her (thank the heavens!), she seemed dead set on the next best thing: getting me to join. 

See, this was precisely why I never wanted Bucky around for family dinners in the first place. Yet here I stood, setting out a plate for him at yet another one.

“Steve!” I heard him call as soon as his bike came to a stop by the fence half an hour later. He was waving with… something that he held clutched in his right hand, in a bundle. I felt a frown coming on.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“Happy birthday!” he said after his initial bear hug greeting. “I got you a present!” he exclaimed happily, holding his hands out towards me. “Or well, for the both of us.”

“Ah,” I said curtly looking down.

“I meant to get you a Howling Commandos t-shirt cause, you know, you  _ are _ a Howling Commando now but they didn’t sell them, for some stupid reason…”

“Art galleries don’t usually do the band shirt kind of merchandise.”

“Yeah, well, they  _ should _ . But then I found these at the festival shop. Look! It’s you!”

He spread his arms to showcase what he was wearing. It was indeed a t-shirt, a light grey mélange one with a white print on it.

I blinked.

“‘Corn and culture,’” I read out loud.

Bucky’s head bopped up and down, as he grinned ear to ear.

Next to the text, which was set in three different fonts, a pair of corn stalks as well as the T8 sculpture that adorned the Pappajohn Sculpture Park were depicted. As the esteemed Sir Erskine would say,  _ oy vey _ .

“How is that me?” I said, almost not whining, already sort of regretting that I asked but I  _ had _ to, okay. 

“You’re easily the most cultured person I’ve ever met,” he said excitedly, nodding along as he was completely confident in this. I had no reason to doubt it. “And now you’re here, in Iowa.”

“Ergo, corn.”

“Bingo!”

He looked down at the shirt and made a little smile, then shrugged.

“Well. I know you don’t exactly like corn, or Iowa for that matter, but. You’re here now. So I got one too.”

I took the t-shirt from his hand, my eye roll not as poignant as I planned it to be.

“We match,” I said. That too wasn’t as dry as I intended it to be.

Bucky made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh, and moved to pull the shirt over my head, over the plaid shirt I was already wearing.

“Okay, you be the culture and I’ll be the corn then,” he said, grabbing my shoulder.

I guess, or rather I know, that he said that to make things better. Of course, it only made things far, far worse.

“We match,” I repeated, lower this time while Bucky beamed.

Once we’d finished eating, we packed the desert to go and Grandma led the way to the place along Deep Creek where most of Simonville’s inhabitants would convene to celebrate with drink, song and fireworks. 

With Grandma being the socialite she was, everyone present seemed to know her and us, mum was basically swarmed by old school friends who hadn’t seen her in ages, or so they loudly exclaimed.

I passed through the throng rather anonymously, with Bucky by my side in our stupid matching shirts (I wore my plaid over it now, making it slightly less obvious).

I looked around the group of late night pic-nicers and began to wonder why the Barnes family weren’t all making an appearance.

“Where’s your family?”

“Oh,” he said and shrugged. “They’re out of town, went to visit my cousins in Sioux Falls.”

“Wait, without you?”

“Well, I would’ve come but it’s your birthday, and Sif’s last band performance, and I couldn’t miss either of that!” 

He very well could, but I wasn’t going to bother arguing that point. 

“Maria’s also gone for the weekend, but the rest of gang’s here if you want to say hello. Or, the old gang I should say.”

I shrugged, and motioned for Bucky to lead the way. I figured it was only polite to say hello to this other family of his, if his biological one had travelled to another state without him on one of the biggest holidays of the year.

And I’d been meeting that family soon enough, it turned out.

I had been on two (2) flights before in my life, travelling to and from that fateful visit to Simonville as a child. As such, Sioux Gateway Airport was one of only two airports that I had ever visited. (To any non-Americans reading this I can assure you that it is not that strange for such a small town to have its own commercial airfield. America is a railroad deficient country.) 

Early that scheduled Friday I was waiting on our front porch for Bucky and his mother to pick me up, the contents of my backpack having been meticulously planned and re-planned – we were flying back that night but I wanted to be prepared for anything this first venture into the real, adult Art World could throw at me. In the end, that planning did me no favors for what it did throw at me, but I am once again getting ahead of events here. 

It was with no little trepidation I saw Barnes senior and junior coming to a stop in front of the fence in a blue pick-up truck, both climbing out of the car. Grandma flew out of her seat before I could move, quickly tripping off the porch and approaching our guests with open arms. A bit over enthusiastic of her in my opinion, but I didn’t know anything of her relationship to Mrs. Barnes, just that she had one, as she had one with everyone in a thirty mile radius.

“Anika!” Grandma greeted her, and to my astonishment Mrs. Barnes replied with an equally eager “Nicolette!” Everyone in Simonville knew Grandma Fury, but this was the first person I had met who was on first name basis with her. I don’t think even her bridge club friends called her Nicolette. 

Bucky was dressed for the occasion, with his military coat despite the heat and the Harley Davidson shirt he wore was indeed a Chicago one.

“You’re looking nervous,” he said happily. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I look,” I replied and handed him one of the two tall carton cylinders carrying the canvases we were bringing along as carry-on luggage. He reached out for the second before I could protest, but he might as well: they were almost taller than I was.

“Are you finally going to introduce me, Jamie?” Mrs. Barnes asked as she came towards me. She was about an inch short than her son, with the same dark and wavy hair.

Bucky lived up to his look of a dramatic teenager as he rolled his eyes at his mother.

“Mom, this is Steve,” he said in his traditional eloquence.

“It’s as much a pleasure as I imagined,” Mrs. Barnes said as she extended a hand and smiled a broad smile, a slightly prettier version of Bucky’s.

_ Oh my God. She calls him Jamie _ , I thought and momentarily forgot to answer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” I said eventually.

“We’ve all been so excited for your art project,” she said and looked at the cylinders Bucky was placing in the front seat. “But I’ll guess our curiosity will have to keep a little longer – I’m looking forward to see the pictures when they’re done!”

“I’ll be sure to send them to you as soon as I get them,” I answered politely, wondering if the whole Barnes family were expecting me to be some sort of artistic genius.

“Thank you, Steve, I’d really like that. Well, let’s get this show on the road, shall we, boys?”

“Sarah will be sorry she missed you,” Grandma said as she took Mrs. Barnes’ hand to say goodbye. “You must come over for dinner soon.”

“And you as well!” she answered.

This camaraderie between our families would have worried me in any other circumstance, but the nervousness was getting to me and after a quick hug with Grandma I scrambled into the backseat. Bucky joined me shortly, after calling out “Goodbye, Mrs. Fury!”

Mrs. Barnes was a more considerate driver than her son, and taunted me with neither poor music taste nor small talk, both which were blessings in my nerve wrecked state. When she left us by the check in gate she gave Bucky a semi-stern lecture to behave properly on this very important occasion for me (which he in turn took semi-offense to) and then gave me a hug.

“Best of luck today Steve, we’ll all be sending good thoughts your way,” she said smiling widely. “I can’t wait for you to come back and tell me everything.”

Her heartfelt interest in this endeavor surprised me a little, but the Barnes family was apparently an intense bunch all of them.

“It’s very nice of your mum to come pick us up tonight,” I said to Bucky as we passed through security.

He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Mrs. Barnes yelling “Jamie,  _ behave! _ ” which made him stop in his tracks and sigh deeply.

“She’s mostly doing it to make sure I don’t mess this up in any way, I think,” he said with annoyance. “As if I would ever do that to you!”

Contrary to what I would have believed of Bucky Barnes a few months ago, I didn’t think that anything that could go wrong today would be his fault. His unfounded loyalty would definitely prevent that, one of its less irritating traits.

“Have you ever flown before?” I asked as we walked through the tourist shop, filled with gear embracing the Sioux City airport designator in the incredible way only Iowans can: with the slogan “Fly SUX.”

Bucky nodded.

“Sure. To D.C. for Obama’s inauguration.”

“Really? Which one?” 

“Both,” he said, the following “duh” loud and clear in his tone. I really don’t know why his parents’ presidential infatuation kept slipping my mind.

Shy of two hours later we emerged into the crowds of Chicago O’Hare Airport, where we were met by a chauffeur in a tailored suit carrying a sign with “Mr. Rogers” printed on it. And next to him stood Misty, flown in from a different part of Iowa.

“Hello boys!” she said giddily, giving me a one armed hug that evolved into an arm lock as she quickly ushered us to the parking lot. “We might just make it before the morning rush takes off,” she explained. “And there’s also the fact that I’m dying to see your work.” She looked at the cylinders that Bucky still insisted on carrying for me. 

“I just hope they live up to your expectations.”

She laughed.

“You’ve given us no reasons to doubt you, Steve. In fact, Abraham and I both feel like you’re our safest bet for a successful day. Don’t you agree?” 

She turned to Bucky, who gave a single nod.

“Steve painted my bike,” he blurted then, out of the blue. “And it was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen on a bike. So I know these paintings will be just as awesome.”

“So do I,” Misty said beaming.

These two might be convinced members of my modest fanclub already, but there was really only one person’s opinion who mattered to me when it came to my art. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back in toooown and so am I! I’m really sorry I’ve kept you all waiting! I moved into a new apartment, had a lot of stuff at work + freelance stuff on the side + writing deadlines for a project I’m in and then yesterday I had a work project snafu that made me cry at the office. Adulthood, never try it at home, kids. But I’m back now, in my happiest of happy places. Hopefully the wait will have been worth it. <3 Speaking of awful, adult realities: I forget if I’ve mentioned this before but this fic takes place in **2015**. Not in this goddamn awful election year, _puh-lease and thank you_. When I get around to posting side stories for the ~Simonville universe~ you will see plenty of “The year of our Lord 2016 according to presidential freaks the Barnes family” but until then, good riddance!!! #I'm with her, obviously.
> 
> The books that Sarah gives Steve for his birthday are both real, and you should read them! I started _[Welcome to Braggsville](https://www.amazon.com/Welcome-Braggsville-T-Geronimo-Johnson/dp/0062302132/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1476823748&sr=8-1&keywords=welcome+to+braggsville)_ earlier this summer but haven’t read it in forever, so must catch up. Am really, really excited to read _[Walking with Shadows](https://www.amazon.com/Walking-Shadows-Jude-Dibia/dp/141161934X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1476821341&sr=8-1&keywords=jude+dibia)_ though! Jude Dibia is an openly homosexual author who wrote the first Nigerian novel to feature a homosexual main character - and since the anti-LGBTQ laws came into place in Nigeria in 2014 he’s been forced into exile. He now lives as a [guest writer of Malmö City of Refuge](http://icorn.org/writer/jude-dibia), meaning that he is hosted as a threatened writer by the city of Malmö, Sweden and ICORN. I’ve met him twice and can’t wait to finally read his works, which are quite hard to come by.
> 
> THE CORN AND CULTURE SHIRT IS ALSO REAL. You heard me! I did not make this shit up! Up until very recently you could still buy it from the [Des Moines Arts Festival](http://desmoinesartsfestival.org/des-moines-arts-festival/) website (if you lived in the US, sob) but they just took all merch down so?! I am distraught and sad and uuuugh. At least you can catch a peek of it on page 7 in this [pdf](http://files.ifea.com/Awards/2014Pinnacles/2014IFEA-HaasandWilkersonPinnacle-C57-B1-A1-DesMoinesArtsFestival.pdf). :( Fingers crossed it’ll be back!
> 
> Aaaand the Sioux Gateway Airport slogan actually is “Fly SUX.” I loved doing research for this fic, but I love the Midwest even more.


	20. A Passage to Illinois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At 27 minutes past the hour, the elevator doors opened and the whole room came to a stop as a flustered man with sweat stains on his crumpled suit stumbled out.
> 
> “I am so sorry, so sorry for the delay, but we’re here now!”
> 
> A young man, a very beautiful one who I could have spotted for a model even if we were not anticipating one, walked slowly out behind him. He was the image of calm composure next to his stressed manager, but there was one alarming thing about him that made the staff who rushed forward to greet him freeze in their tracks.

_“And then, there are painters who make nothing but good things, who cannot make anything bad, just as there are ordinary people who cannot do anything that isn’t good.”_

**― Vincent van Gogh, in a letter to his brother Theo, January 1874**

 

Stepping through the elevator doors and into the studio was slightly akin to the bustle of the airport, except here we were at the center of attention. A blonde assistant that had been waiting for our arrival immediately grabbed Bucky and the cylinders, and attracted a group of other assistants with a single shout. Misty shot past them in order to, I presume, find Sir Erskine, leaving me to walk into the room at my own pace. We were in a penthouse, the first of its kind I had ever been in, decorated in its entirety in white and chrome, neither of which mattered much since the backdrop would consist of my paintings, and my paintings alone.

“Ah, they’re here?” I made out a familiar voice saying, and moments later I caught sight of Sir Erskine scurrying over to me.

“Steven, Steven, welcome,” he said, grasping my hands. “I’m thrilled that you could join us today.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, sir, it’s an honor to see you work.”

“It’s an honor to see _you_ work for me,” Sir Erskine responded with a smile. “Where are the paintings? Have they been fitted yet?” he asked out loud to no one in particular.

“Coming straight up, Abraham, Sharon’s taking care of it,” Misty called from across the room.

We made our way over and saw that the two canvases were indeed being fitted into a frame of sorts, being stretched out from the floor towards the ceilings, almost twice my own height. It’s distasteful for an artist to toot their own horn like this, but you will forgive me if I tell you that my first thought was that I slightly impressed with myself. It was, in several senses of the word, the greatest work I had ever done.

“Let’s see, let’s see,” Sir Erskine mumbled and left my side. He started to slowly circle the paintings, and the assistants assembling the paintings to the scaffold that held them up. He put his palms together, resting his fingertips against his nose and chin, and remained silent for what seemed like several minutes.

Eventually he moved, suddenly jerking an arm out and gently drawing his fingers against the surface of the painting – I couldn’t see his face but felt certain that his face must be covered with a disappointed frown, he didn’t like it, he was disappointed, it didn’t fit his vision–

“There is one major concern to take into consideration when one commissions work from another artist,” he spoke with his back still to me. “Even among the most talented and artistically inclined, there are some who, no matter how well they can draw, paint or sculpt, can only do it for themselves. Some are able to paint for others and a fewer number yet are capable of creating work that is both beautiful and can speak to an audience, which in this case means customers. The concern is finding an artist within that group. And in this case, that’s what I did!”

Sir Erskine spun around and lowered his hands.

“This is marvelous. The design, vision and quality of the work are all exemplary, but most importantly, they are filled with a love for the work. It sets the exact mood I desired for this shoot.”

You will excuse me for being a distant narrator in this scene, surely, because the memory alone still renders me speechless.

“Everyone! Look at this! Thanks to Mr. Rogers here we now have a complete set, a complete vision – this is everything we want to say with our work today.”

The whole room broke into applause and I gave a little jump as it threw me back into reality, one where a big group of people all surrounded me and clapped in appreciation of the paintings in front of them, paintings that I had made.

In the corner of my eye, I noticed Bucky and Misty standing behind me, the odd pair out who instead of clapping were giving me thumbs up.

“Is the model ready?” Sir Erskine asked, eager to get to work.

“He’s not here yet,” a male assistant said. “His manager called just now, they’re running a little late because of circumstances but that they’ll be here at twenty past, at the latest.”

“Did he say what kind of circumstances, or just the ordinary unforeseen traffic?”

“No, but he seemed upset.”

“Let’s not worry yet then. I sometimes have that effect on people,” Sir Erskine decided, shrugging his shoulders.

At 27 minutes past the hour, the elevator doors opened and the whole room came to a stop as a flustered man with sweat stains on his crumpled suit stumbled out.

“I am so sorry, so sorry for the delay, but we’re here now!”

A young man, a very beautiful one who I could have spotted for a model even if we were not anticipating one, walked slowly out behind him. He was the image of calm composure next to his stressed manager, but there was one alarming thing about him that made the staff who rushed forward to greet him freeze in their tracks.

“Why is he wearing _an eyepatch_?!” Sir Erskine cried.

The manager wrung his hands, looking from Sir Erskine to the model and back. The model took a deep breath and shook his head.

“Well, that’s, that’s uhm. We had a little accident on our way over,” the manager whispered.

“When did it stop being just a circumstance, and turn into an accident? What happened?”

“In the car, I noticed that his left eye was slightly bloodshot and I always carry eye drops with me for that reason, so I gave him that. Next thing I know, he was screaming in pain!”

Sir Erskine turned to the model, all anger removed from his voice.

“Did you have an allergic reaction? Can I see?”

The model shook his head slightly, and lifted the eyepatch to reveal his left eye, swollen to almost twice the size of the right one, bruised and yes, certainly bloodshot.

“He gave me a bottle of wart remover,” he said simply.

“It was an accident!” the manager squeaked. “A total, unfortunate, freak accident.”

“Wart remover?!” Sir Erskine yelped. “Are you out of your goddamned mind?! Sam can’t work like this, he needs to see a doctor right away. He could be blind because of this!”

The model, the hopefully only temporarily visually impaired model named Sam, was of the classical-beauty-that-belongs-in-a-museum variety. He truly looked like a Greek god, with a dark skin tone and features so even that they could have been sculpted out of marble (any material, really). Why he was the perfect candidate for this photoshoot was self-evident and the impossibility to go through with it without him was striking. Standing there as he was, looking miserable and with a swelled up and deformed eye, he was still beautiful in a grey V-neck that complimented his well-toned muscles. He was standing (with great posture) rather close to me, and I could catch a hint of bergamot and citrus off him. (Right, time to stop gushing.)

“How could you even for a second think to bring him here rather than to a hospital?” Sir Erskine barked at the manager.

“We stopped at a pharmacy to rinse it out!” the manager said, wiping his sweaty cheeks with the back of his hands. “I thought maybe you could use make-up to hide the swelling a bit…”

“That is not the issue at hand here, what if he gets permanent damage from this? God, a pharmacy?”

Sir Erskine shook his head and swore under his breath.

“Anyone seen my phone?” he asked, putting a hand on the model’s shoulder.

“Here, boss,” an assistant who appeared at his side said and handed it to him.

Sir Erskine took it and began scrolling, while at the same time talking to the model in a tender voice.

“Don’t worry, Sam, I am calling the best ophthalmologist in Chicago and I promise that she will take good care of you. I’ll hire you again in the future, so don’t you worry about that.”

He put the phone to his ear, and shot a dirty look at the manager and hissed.

“And when she’s done, call me and I promise to get you a much better manager.”

The manager looked crestfallen but didn’t protest, most likely agreeing with Sir Erskine if he had any self-awareness.

I looked at the model, Sam, and tried to give him an empathic smile. He didn’t return it, but shrugged in a manner that seemed to say “What can you do, huh.” If this wasn’t a surprising occurrence, then he really did need a new manager, or the modeling industry was worse than I thought.

“Right,” Sir Erskine said in short tone as he hung up the phone. “Dr. Ross will see you right away, so my assistant will drive you.”

The assistant who’d brought his phone seemed to procure a pair of car keys out of thin air and nodded reassuringly.

“And you can escort yourself off the premises and get far out of my sight,” Sir Erskine said in direction of the manager, who swallowed loudly and nodded once.

The assistant took Sam’s (great, strong, well-chiseled) arm and led him out of the studio and he gave a nod in my general direction before turning around, which made my knees feel weaker than usual.

Once the elevator doors had closed behind them (the manager had opted for the stairwell) Sir Erskine let out a deep sigh and sunk down on a stool groaning.

“Poor bloke,” Bucky whispered. “Is art always like this?” he asked quietly in alarm.

“Not in my experience, but I don’t do photography,” I whispered back meekly.

Sir Erskine seemed to have overheard, and he looked up at us, head in his hands and looking not too different from a sad dog. He squinted a bit and frowned, then rose in one fluid movement.

“You,” he said. “Have you got any modelling experience?”

He was facing us, and both Bucky and I turned around to see who he was talking to.

“Who, me?” Bucky asked.

He was frowning in disbelief, meanwhile my eyes darted from him to Sir Erskine and back in utter confusion. I understood that the situation was dire, but had the desperation turned Sir Erskine from his usual genius self into a delusional maniac? Was _he_ the one with compromised vision, or how else could he look at Bucky and think “yes, this Iowa biker with the ridiculous attire fits my artistic vision?”

“Yes, you,” Sir Erskine said and pushed his glasses up his nose. He seemed to be filled with a new sense of calm.

“Look at his face,” he said to no one in particular, yet all the staff immediately stepped up behind him and turned their undivided attention to Bucky. “He has soft, fine Eurasian features, accented by the pulled back hair but I bet if we let it down it would frame his face beautifully. His color palette would stand out wonderfully against the paintings.”

“And those lashes,” he added after a moment, making the whole staff concur with a soft “Mmm.”

I took a step back and stared at Bucky, still confused by the situation and yet… I mean, it was not as if I had not noticed these things about Bucky’s appearance before, and I was not in disagreement with Sir Erskine’s observation, it was just… that I had never articulated or put his looks in this perspective before.

“What are they all looking at?” Bucky said sounding a bit alarmed, oblivious that I was looking at him in the exact same way. (Wait, does that mean the he was used to me ogling him like this? _God_ , control yourself, Steve!)

“Pardon this sudden request, but would you be willing to model for us today?” Sir Erskine said, clasping his hands.

“What?” Bucky asked, his frown deepening. When the whole staff nodded encouragingly at him in unison, he took a step back.

“Bucky?” Sir Erskine asked.

“Yeah…”

“I know that I am asking a great deal, springing this on you so suddenly, but we need a model if this shoot is to happen at all, and as you’ve noticed, the booked model had some unfortunate circumstances brought upon him instead. You are the only one we can turn to with such short notice,” Sir Erskine explained in a gentle voice.

I was probably feeling as confused as Bucky in that moment, even if I did agree with Sir Erskine’s comments on his appearance. Bucky could, based on looks alone, do this, no matter how crazy the idea was in of itself.

“It’s not gonna look good,” Bucky said, which made the entire staff erupt in protests.

“It will, I promise. I’ve been doing this for quite some time.”

Bucky did not seem convinced by Sir Erskine’s long experience, but then again he didn’t know his CV like I did. He turned to me, still frowning.

“What do you think?” he said, the hardest question he could have asked me.

I looked at him and swallowed, deciding to be honest.

“I think he’s right,” I said. “You can do this.”

And just like that, Bucky’s frown was wiped straight off his face and he shrugged.

“Sure,” he said, to the cheer of everyone else in the room.

“Back to work everyone, we can still make that deadline!” Sir Erskine exclaimed and clasped Bucky’s shoulder, ushering him towards the wardrobe and make-up staff who were on their toes and ready to start work.

The whole room stirred into motion and I was left as the only one rooted in my spot, still coming to terms with this turn of events.

“Are you sure about this? I mean, do you want to do this?” I asked Bucky before he was dragged away into another room.

“This whole thing, whatever it is, gets cancelled if I don’t, right?” he said and shrugged. “Besides, it’s your favorite artist and you trust him, so I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. Hell, as long as you know, I’m all good.”

He was yanked away into a changing room and I remained in the main studio, thinking that I certainly did not know what I was doing _at all_.

Almost an hour went by before one of the stylists emerged from the changing room and called the wardrobe staff in, who followed suit with several racks of clothes.

“Now this is was unexpected,” Misty said as she came to sit down next to me on the bench in the back of the studio where I had retired to.

“You could say that,” I agreed.

The assistant in charge with installing my canvases, who I think was called Sharon, was loitering nearby and joined the conversation. Misty nodded at her in greeting.

“What does your friend do?” she said.

“He’s an Iowa biker.”

“You’re both still in high school, right?” Misty added.

“Huh,” Sharon said, crossing her arms. “Does he work on the side?”

“Uhm, in a motorshop.”

“I mean, he really hasn’t modelled before?”

I shook my head, thinking that Bucky’s inexperience in the modelling field couldn’t be _that_ surprising.

“It’s interesting, what unsuspected talents can be found among the cornfields. First you,” she said and pointed to my paintings, “and then him. What do you say Misty, maybe we should start scouting the rural Midwest a bit more?”

“Yeah Steve, what other talents are you hiding home in Simonville?” Misty replied and bumped my shoulder.

I was about to defer them from that doomed-to-fail mission with a resounding “literally none” but at that very moment the dressing room door was thrown open and as a result, Misty flew out of her seat. Sharon and I followed shortly after, both intrigued to see Bucky’s transformation, but for vastly different reasons I suspect.

And what a metamorphosis had taken place.

Bucky’s hair had been washed and blown out to enhance his natural curls, which now brushed lightly against his shoulders. The makeup artist had not held back on his eyebrows, plucking and styling them to the point where his whole face structure seemed to have been enhanced, and his lips looked… more pink and luscious than usual. Perhaps the biggest change was that this was the first time I had ever seen Bucky wearing clothes that not only fit him, but appeared tailored to his exact frame and measurements. They were also fashionable, in style and of a high quality brand certainly not sold at the Costco back home. You could never have guessed from his looks that this was a dumb biker from Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207.

Sharon gave a low whistle. “What a hidden gem, huh,” she said. I was thankfully saved from adding any commentary on the matter by the flurry of activity that started as Sir Erskine exclaimed “Let’s get to work everybody!” I remained watching in the background and was also saved from speaking to Bucky at all, as he was instructed how and when to pose, and ushered to and fro the camera to change into another outfit, each new one more stylish than the next. Part of the reason of me being there was to get the opportunity to watch Sir Erskine work, but it was difficult to actually do that when that work revolved around Bucky, of all people. Still, it was a mesmerizing thing to witness.

“And that,” Sir Erskine said, finger on the shutter button, “is our last shot, I think. That’s another wrap, folks, good work today!”

Everyone paused for a moment to join in a round of applause and calls of “good work” and then assumed activity again. Someone from the styling team whisked Bucky off again and I barely managed to nod in his general direction when he looked over to me.

“That went splendid, did it not?” Sir Erskine said as he walked over. “How lucky for us that you were both here.”

“Oh, I don’t think I did very much…” I said, which was true: even now I was sticking to my earlier MO of trying not to stand in anyone’s way as the technical crew began disassembling the lights and camera and as Sharon and her assistants took the paintings down.

“The artist is ever so humble, I hear!” Sir Erskine said, patting my shoulder. “Your work certainly did a great deal, and if not for your presence then Bucky would not have been here either, would he? A true team effort, I would call it.”

He turned away from me and asked someone to bring him a glass of water.

“Oh! Before I forget, do you have time for a quick bite before we must have you back at the airport?”

I only had time to nod in response before Sir Erskine too left my side to help pack up the studio, upon which I retreated back to the bench where I’d earlier stayed out of everyone’s way.

Bucky joined me not too long after, coming out of the dressing room in the attire I was used to seeing him in and with his face washed clean.

“I can finally _move_ again,” he said with a sigh and sat down, totally disregarding the fact that his own clothes were significantly tighter than most of the outfits he had showcased today. “So? How did I do? Was it okay? I didn’t understand anything, and I–?”

Oh, Bucky was genuinely worried and here I was, not putting him out of his misery. (I can hear your snide remarks of “typical you!”, thank you very much.)

“You did really well, I think.”

“Yeah? Are you sure I didn’t mess it up, like, I know this means a lot to you even if I can’t understand it…”

“Yeah, you did great. And I’m glad you did it.”

Bucky didn’t audibly sigh, but you could see his chest heaving with relief.

“So I managed to pay you back a little?” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, rolling my eyes at this again. “You paid it back in full, whatever sum you imagined you owed me.”

Bucky grinned.

“Well, maybe not all of it, but at least I’m getting there.”

It was close to midnight when we stepped onto the tarmac in Iowa once again, and went to meet Mrs. Barnes who was waiting by the gate.

She raised a hand as she spotted us, but froze shortly after.

“What on earth happened to _you?_ ” she asked her son, blinking.

Even though he was now restored to his usual fashion, with most of the makeup washed off him, Bucky’s eyebrows were still quite different from before. There was also the question of his blown out hair, which looked as luscious as it had done in the studio (the stylist had made his hair ties disappear some way, and mysteriously enough had no others to offer him, which meant that Bucky had no choice but to wear it down).

“What do you mean?” Bucky said sourly, knowing perfectly well what she meant.

“You just look so… neat. And your hair is looking very nice,” Mrs. Barnes said and absentmindedly ran her fingers through it. She threw me a glance and found me looking exactly the same as I had that morning. She raised her eyebrows questioningly at me, but I shook my head, leaving that discussion to Bucky to have with his mother at some other time.

Or now.

“Erskine needed a model,” Bucky said with a shrug. “So I stepped up.”

“Erskine?”

“The artist Steve works for.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“I got paid and everything,” Bucky added.

“You did?” I said in surprise, since I had missed this important development, but of course I did not want to imagine a universe where Sir Erskine was dishonorable enough to not pay his models.

“Yeah, Erskine gave me all these papers to sign and send back to him. You and dad need to sign them too before the pictures can go to print,” he said and pulled a thick envelope out of his coat pocket, handing it over to his mother.

“Will do,” she said, surprise still heavy in her voice. “I take it everything went well then?” she asked, turning to me once again, maybe to confirm that her underage son hadn’t been pulled into anything illegal or inappropriate.

“Great, everything went great,” I said hastily. “Bucky did a great job.”

“It was your paintings, you did all the work. I just sat in front of a camera,” he said and shrugged.

Mrs. Barnes put her chin in her hand and looked from Bucky to me and back, a wondering smile spreading across her face.

“I’m very proud of both of you,” she said mildly. “Now let’s get home before it gets too late.”

It was so dark outside that I was impressed that Mrs. Barnes could even find her car, and the whole ride back to Simonville was pitch black enough that I could hardly tell what direction we were driving in. Now, wasn’t that a perfect metaphor for this whole strange day?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this chapter: Bucky: still the prettiest. 
> 
> And Sam, beautiful, amazing, POOR, POOR SAM, I'm so sorry for putting you through this ;___; Sam won't be back much yet, buuuut when I start writing and posting side stories for this project, there'll be stories with and about him. Sam <3
> 
>  
> 
> Another reading tip, that Steve has surely read several times over, are these [letters of van Gogh's](http://vangoghletters.org/vg/). The one quoted at the beginning is [this one](http://vangoghletters.org/vg/letters/let017/letter.html#translation). :) 


	21. Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was used to watching Bucky’s back as he drove away to the annoying songs that had become the soundtrack of my life. Songs that had begun to grow on me. And no matter how hard I’d wished that he wouldn’t, Bucky had always come driving back to me.
> 
> Maybe I was getting tired of watching him go. Maybe I was becoming afraid that he wouldn’t return.

_“But sometimes illumination comes to our rescue at the very moment when all seems lost; we have knocked at every door and they open on nothing until, at last, we stumble unconsciously against the only one through which we can enter the kingdom we have sought in vain a hundred years - and it opens.”_

_―_ **_In Search of Lost Time,_ ** **Marcel Proust**

 

My first summer in Simonville had so far by and large consisted of nothing but art, leaving less time for the Midwestern summer experience people talked so highly of. Even now in my leisurely state, I wasn’t living my school holidays to the fullest: I hardly think sitting in Denny’s flicking through the fashion magazines in which Bucky’s ads were printed made any list of seasonal must do’s.

 

“This one is just straight up embarrassing,” Bucky judged the picture on page 93 of i-D. “Most of them aren’t that bad, but this one I don’t get why they didn’t photoshop away.”

 

“They’re all good, and Sir Erskine knows what he’s doing,” I said in defense of both the photographer and his object. It also happened to be perfectly true.

 

“Yeah, I guess. He wants me to continue modelling, did I tell you that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I mean, if it’s once in a while then it’s okay, and the pay can be real good too, so it doesn’t feel right to just say no. Erskine gave me the number of that other model, you know, Sam, who was supposed to work when we were there. He’s been giving me advice. He has a new manager now, and a new agency, and they’re very good apparently, so he says he’ll help me set things up. But I’ve told him that the gang and my job at Mack’s still comes first, but if it can work outside of that, then why not, I guess. I’ve only got one year left in school too, so. Have you thought anymore about what you want to do after graduation?”

 

Bucky slurped his ice tea loudly, giving me time to answer.

 

“Yeah,” I said truthfully, although I would rather not elaborate.

 

In the week following our trip to Chicago, when Sir Erskine had been in regular touch with Bucky and his parents to handle everything regarding the photoshoot and his future modelling career (what an unbelievable combination of words), he had also called me and asked the very same, very daunting question: what comes next?

 

“I realize that you must of course already have made plans a long time ago about what to do after high school, but might I enquire what they are, Steven?” he had asked me.

 

“Nothing set in stone yet, sir, but I’ve planned to go to college, yes.”

 

“You are continuing with art, I presume? Even if you have not set a clear career path?”

 

“Well, truthfully I haven’t imagined a career in… art.”

 

“You’re right, of course, no such thing as a clear career path in anything for your generation, is there? I would just like to make sure that you do not lose sight of the talent you have, because it is a great one.”

 

“Thank you, sir, but I think you might be overestimating me.”

 

“I respectfully disagree, Steven. Say, what schools are you thinking of applying too? I am more than willing to write you recommendation letters.”

 

“Oh, that’s really too kind, sir. That’s not… really set in stone either, I’m afraid, it would depend on, I mean, I would have to look into scholarship possibilities.”

 

“Naturally. I’m more than willing to advise you on suitable schools and programs, I am a bit biased towards the New York schools as you might understand, and I know of quite a few scholarships there. Did you know I teach classes sometimes?”

 

“Yes sir, at both Tisch and Colombia.”

 

“That’s right. Now, both very good schools that I would recommend to you, and you to them, if you feel so inclined. I understand that I am putting a lot of pressure on you straight away, but I want you to carefully consider your options and take your time. I hope this isn’t too straightforward, but I expect great things from you in the future, Steven, and so I feel it’s only my responsibility to assist you in any way I can in getting there.”

 

“That’s very kind, sir, it’s an honor that you have that much faith in me…”

 

“Honor’s all mine, Steven. Promise me you’ll think about it until next time we’re in touch, okay?”

 

And thought of it I had, dear reader, but that had so far not helped me make any fruitful decisions on the matter. Sometimes it really was preferable for big decisions to just be thrown at you, as had been the case with Bucky and his unexpected new vocation.

 

“I prefer this one,” a rapt voice announced and hit a double spread in Harper’s Bazaar with an index finger.

 

“Thanks Namor,” Bucky said politely in response to the compliment from our enthusiastic, not crazy, townsman who had appeared at our table without a sound.

 

“Do you hold any particular favorite?” he asked, face hawkish and turned towards me.

 

“Uhm,” was my intelligent answer. “I’m actually quite fond of this one.”

 

I pointed to the i-D ad that Bucky detested so.

 

“What? But that’s– you really have no taste, Steve, you know that right?” Bucky said.

 

“It has its charm, I can see that,” Namor commented, instantly making me rethink all life choices that had led us to the moment where we agreed on something besides our dislike for Clint.

 

As I spent the following weeks wallowing in the existential dread that rose from the lethal combination of researching colleges and the unbearable Midwestern heat, I at least achieved a long standing goal of mine: to see less of Bucky. Under the guidance of Sam, he had signed with the same agency, Stark Models in New York, and had successfully booked several jobs. It had been decided, between Bucky, his parents and his obligations to the gang, Mack and school that he would only take jobs in the Midwest, but currently that meant that he was away in Chicago a lot of the time. It made me realize that my attempts to escape Bucky’s company had become quite a time consuming hobby, and that I now had vast stretches of free time available to me. Simonville’s lack of scenery became apparent yet again and I persevered in the shade on the front porch reading my way through mom’s library.

 

Grandma’s bike had (thankfully) been moved back into the shed to shield it from the never-resting sunlight, until the hottest day of the year when its patron saint deigned to pay it a visit, unannounced. Despite spending time around and _in_ some of the finest menswear on the market these days, in private Bucky Barnes still dressed like the disaster he was, which this morning meant his usual printed t-shirt  and too-tight jeans, but cut off to be wearable in this heat.

 

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” he said as he stepped through the screen door that made a valiant attempt at keeping the swarms of mosquitos out.

 

It was a classic overstatement, as it had only been eleven days, but I didn’t breach that subject. When I thought about it, it was probably the longest he had gone without seeing me since we met, but I certainly didn’t mention that either.

 

“Time moves slower in this heat,” was the meek answer I came up with instead.

 

Bucky nodded in agreement and sat down next to me in front of the fan by the kitchen window.

 

“The same goes for when you’re in the studio, even though there’s air conditioning,” he said with a sigh. “Did you move the bike? I thought I should check the oil on it.”

 

“Do we have to go outside?” I whined, but got up anyway and helped him retrieve it from the shed, then sat down on the front steps as Bucky got to work doing whatever “checking the oil” entailed. There were still some left over red water balloons in the basket at the front, left over like Grandma had predicted.

 

He didn’t get very far before his phone rang, of course with the guitar riff of a J-pop song picked out by Skye.

 

“Hey. Yeah, this is Bucky. Yeah, once in a while, I just start– no, the gang always comes first. That’s not true. Yeah, but I’ve never missed a meeting. Okay? What? Inappropriate, what are you talking about?”

 

At the start of the conversation, Bucky’s had looked surprised then confused, but now he turned serious, pursing his lips and staying quiet for a long moment. He shot a glance my way, then stood up and turned around.

 

“What does he have to do with it? You think… What the hell for? Sure, I’ll come, if it’s important to– yeah, obviously meetings are important, that’s what I _said_ , I haven’t missed any… I’ll draw the line if it’s that important to you. Floyd monument, 5 pm tomorrow, got it.”

 

Bucky remained standing, phone out, for maybe a minute before he pocketed it and sat down by the bike again as if nothing had happened. His shoulders twitched a bit.

 

Boy, he was going to make me ask, wasn’t he?

 

“What was that about?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

_Boy._

 

“It was someone from the gang, wasn’t it?”

 

“No. Or, yeah, it was, but one of the new members from Turrington so not…”

 

“So not one of the Bunheads?”

 

Bucky swallowed.

 

“No.”

 

“Well, what did they want, apart from “nothing”? What’s this line you’re going to draw?”

 

Bucky sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

 

“Drawing the line, it means you gotta prove your loyalty to the gang or whatever. It’s this biker thing, but we never did that kind of thing before. Like, when Nat was the boss, there was no need to! If you need someone to prove to you that they’re serious about this, then you messed up as a leader, right?” He sighed again, heavier this time. “You have nothing to do with this.”

 

“So you said and yes, as I’ve made it clear on numerous occasions I’m not concerned with the Bunheads. But you are.”

 

“Yeah, and they’re apparently concerned that I’m doing modelling now,” Bucky muttered and jammed the wrench he was holding into the ground. He leaned back and turned to me.

 

“Since we merged with the other gang, we’ve been much bigger because they had more members, right. And that’s fun I guess, and at the beginning everyone was being extra nice and getting to know each other, that’s why I got some more clothes from you, remember? But then this point of being big became a thing. What’s so great about it? I was perfectly fine with it being just the six us before Nat left. But it mattered to Pierce, like a lot, so she basically became the leader even though she was supposed to share the position with Maria at first. And she brought another gang in, even, saying that all of northwestern Iowa’s gangs should “unite” or whatever. Now, people are just calling us Hydra, which was their name before, and it didn’t really sit right with me to just… fold over like that, but you know, some things you have to let go when you’re in a big group. Except, Pierce doesn’t think like that, and so while everyone still acts like we’re all friends, it’s just an act. It’s a total power struggle, and what for? We’re just kids in a biker gang in Iowa, what power are you even struggling about? It’s just no… fun anymore.”

 

There really was trouble in the boondock paradise, it seemed.

 

Bucky scratched his elbow and looked down.

 

“I wanted to join the Bunheads because they were cool, but mostly because they were something to fight for, and with, instead of just being picked on all the time. That’s just… high school politics, and now that’s what’s happened here too. I don’t even get what I would have to draw the line about, because I don’t see how modelling is inappropriate or whatever she called it.”

 

“So what are you going to do then?” I asked.

 

“I’ll draw it if they want me to, but if they tell me to leave the gang, then I will,” he said and looked me in the eye for the first time since he got the call.

 

“You will?” I asked, taken aback.

 

“All you need to be a biker is a bike, and some guts, that’s what Nat used to say,” Bucky said, nodding. “And she hasn’t been wrong so far. If that’s what it takes, then that’s what it takes.”

 

I hesitated. Bucky Barnes sans the Bunheads was an equation that made little sense to me. It was as if I would give up my coveted membership of the Howling Commandos, after all I’d done to get it. Bucky had been through significantly more, and the gang had meant more to him – and now he was going to leave it? I knew he held high morals for himself, but his adherence to discipline still surprised me a bit.

 

Maybe impressed was a more correct term, because surprise alone wasn’t enough for the lack of judgement that led to this statement:

 

“Guess you will be riding alone then. Sorry I can’t help you with that.”

 

Grandma’s nagging was obviously getting to me, a side effect of being a good grandson, but it did make Bucky laugh.

 

“You still can’t drive, Steve, but thanks. _I_ can help you with that, though.”

 

“And still, no thank _you_.”

 

When I woke the next morning, it was to the lowest temperature in days, but still humid and sadly: temporary. By the time I got down for breakfast, mum was loudly groaning at the weatherman’s too cheery report of rising temperatures.

 

“There’s no point in summer if all it does is make you wish you were at work, where the ac is,” mom said grumpily, slushing ice cubes around in her juice glass. “Did Bucky come around yesterday?”

 

“Yeah, he was also missing the ac at work.”

 

“Bet he could stack up more hours in a week than I can if he wanted to. But you gotta enjoy your last summer in high school, don’t you?” she said, poking my arm.

 

The natural response would have been to defend against the preposterous idea that any summer in this climate could be properly enjoyed, but I had other things on my mind.

 

“Mom, were there biker gangs around here when you were young too?”

 

“Like Bucky’s?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well,” she began then stopped to chew on the almost melted ice. “Mack had a bike, obviously, and he went riding with some guys sometimes, but I don’t know much about it. And I’m thankful not to; let’s just say that I think the biker gangs around here being predominantly female these days is a good thing.”

 

That perception, while surely not wrong in of itself, might come to change shortly, I thought.

 

“Do you know what it means when bikers draw the line?”

 

Mum raised her eyebrows and thought about it.

 

“Yeah, I think it’s some sort of biker justice. Say if a member broke team rules or regulations, or whatever governs them, then they would have to repent in some way. Depending on what kind of gang we’re talking about, it can get pretty ugly I think.”

 

“Even here?”

 

“In Simonville? I don’t think these girls are at Hell’s Angels’ levels, do you? So no movie style executions, but fist fights, sure. You could get beat up pretty bad, I think Mack once told me of some poor kid getting cigarettes stomped out on him, and– Steve.”

 

As she spoke, I could almost feel the blood retreating from my face and entire head, almost if I were to faint. I can only assume mom caught sight of my sudden paleness.

 

“Bucky is not in trouble, is he?” she asked in a strict tone.

 

I shook my head once.

 

“No, I don’t think he is, not that bad. He just mentioned that the gang’s not getting along as well as they used to, and that he was thinking of quitting, but he didn’t say anything about any real fighting.”

 

Mom nodded.

 

“I’m sure he would tell you if it was serious,” she said, but sounding doubtful still. “Check in on him though, will you?”

 

I promised I would, and sent a text asking shortly thereafter. Before I had finished breakfast I had my reply, saying that everything was fine. I had no reason not to believe him.

 

But I also had no reason to believe that things would remain fine come five pm.

 

There was a long time until then however, and in the slow heat I managed to find some concentration for painting. I sat down on the front steps like the day before, watercolors at my side and both mom and Grandma accompanying me on the porch.

 

“There any problems with the bike?” Grandma asked, motioning to it where it stood parked in front of us.

 

“No, Bucky just checked the oil, I can put it back later.”

 

“Is he coming over for dinner tonight?” she asked then, her standard question when the topic of Bucky came up.

 

“No, he’s… he’s got a meeting with the gang.”

 

And it would be fine, I kept telling myself.

 

I returned to painting in the afternoon, still telling myself that whatever way Bucky was going to draw the line, it would be on the pathetic, half-assed level that everything in Iowa was. And on that level, my skills today seemed to be. I painted the view I had straight in front of me, the view I so often watched, almost always empty and deserted, and now even more so. Even if it surely was the workings of my imagination, something felt amiss, missing from the picture.

 

I was used to watching Bucky’s back as he drove away to the annoying songs that had become the soundtrack of my life. Songs that had begun to grow on me. And no matter how hard I’d wished that he wouldn’t, Bucky had always come driving back to me.

 

Maybe I was getting tired of watching him go. Maybe I was becoming afraid that he wouldn’t return.

 

I stared at the landscape in front of me: the white, the blue, the yellow, the green, the brown. I stared at the still life and knew that the next brush stroke should throw it all off course. It was the only logical step, the only possible step.

 

“Grandma.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“How do you get to the Sergeant Floyd monument?”

 

“That big ugly obelisk in the city?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well. You need to get on the US-75. You know where that is? The IA-60 will take you there.”

 

“Then I’ll see it, right?”

 

I turned around and looked at her sitting in her wicker chair, knitting needles in her hands and glasses far down on her nose. Next to her sat mom, with notes from work in her lap, looking at me with a frown. Grandma stood up.

 

She tossed me something and for the first time in my life I caught it. It was a key on a tattered pleather key chain, in the shape of a heart.

 

“You’re gonna have to learn as you go,” she said and walked briskly down the steps and past me, up to the scooter. It still stood in the yard where Bucky had left it but well oiled, and with a full tank.

 

Grandma put the key in the ignition and turned. She pointed with both hands:

 

“This is the gas, and this is the brake. The rest you’re gonna have to use that bright little head for.”

 

She grasped my shoulder and, against what I had always imagined myself doing, I got on the bike. There was no time to imagine things and live by them, it was all about learning as you go now. Grandma walked past me and up to the gate, opening it.

 

“Steve!”

 

I turned and looked at mom, who had also stood up at this point. She gave me a really weak smile, and I understood it wasn’t easy to let your only son attempt to drive across the plains without any knowledge or experience.

 

“Be careful out there. There are people who die without ever finding something that’s really precious to them. So you hold onto it and never let it go, okay?”

 

Her words stopped me in my tracks, and made me hesitate. Then she gave a small, curt nod and whatever had held me up disappeared again.

 

 _Don’t blow your big chance, Steven_ , I told myself.

 

I turned the key and kicked the gas pedal, which was most likely not what you were supposed to do, but it worked and before I had time to start feeling whatever obstructive feelings could stop me: fear, rationality, common sense, et cetera, the bike jump started and with a little turn, took off down the road.

 

And that, my dear readers or should I more correctly say at this point, _viewers_ , is how we find ourselves observing the very same video installation that brought us all this way in the first place:

  
_The motif: a country asphalt road, dividing the landscape in two. Green and golden cornfields, a cerulean sky. The subject: a bespectacled boy too small for his age, racing down this road on a pink scooter with apparent difficulty but strong determination._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are happening, folks~! We're also nearing the end of this fic and I'll try my hardest to have the final chapters posted very soon and close to each other.
> 
> Sadly, I cannot give you any photos of Bucky modelling but have you considered typing “[Avan Jogia](https://www.google.se/search?q=avan+jogia&espv=2&biw=1366&bih=638&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi96L6Mwv7PAhUBCywKHf6VCZoQ_AUIBigB)” into Google? The next best thing I should say, and it’s a _very_ good thing.
> 
> Speaking of uniting all of northwestern Iowa: I assume that many of you have heard of the North Dakota Access Pipeline? It’s a travesty of a train wreck project that would not only endanger the environment in big parts of the Midwest, but also destroy sacred land that belongs to the Standing Rock tribe. This must not be allowed to happen. Today, [141 protesters were brutally arrested](https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/oct/27/north-dakota-access-pipeline-protest-arrests-pepper-spray), on the very same day that the [Bundy brothers et al, responsible for the Oregon militia standoff in January were acquitted](https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/oct/27/oregon-militia-standoff-bundy-brothers-not-guilty-trial). But yeah, sure, colonialism is dead!! If you live in any of the states affected by the NoDAPL I strongly urge you to join your local protests and call your local representative - and take this into consideration when going to the polls in eleven days!
> 
> Bucky’s ringtone is the guitar riff from [LOVE SURVIVE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sk-lTByZyOo) by SCANDAL.


	22. The Midwest Farmer’s Daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Bucky. He was on his knees in the midst of the group, defiantly looking up at a girl who could be none other than Pierce. She was would-end-up-on-a-front cover-if-she-went-to-California pretty with high cheekbones, pale skin and long, strawberry blonde hair. She was taller than Bucky and held herself regally, like she could trample the rest of humanity under her cowboy boots. To the seldom asked question “What would have happened if Taylor Swift had been born in Iowa?”, Alexandra Pierce was the answer.

“ _He stayed close to his friends because he felt it was his duty. What killed him was his loyalty to people who, when their time came, betrayed him. Never trust anyone, Daniel, especially the people you admire. Those are the ones who will make you suffer the worst blows_.”  

– **_The Shadow of the Wind_ ** **, Carlos Ruiz Zafón**

  
  
A true artist holds a few things to be true and sacred, e.g.:

 

  1. Motorcycles, or variations thereupon, should not be driven without proper protective headgear.
  2. Motorcycles, or variations thereupon, should not be driven without proper knowledge of how to operate them.
  3. Any vehicle whatsoever should not be driven without proper knowledge of road regulations and etiquette.



 

I was not observing any of the truths on this list, but the pick-up truck that was speeding down an empty road outside Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207 was also failing in its adherence to truth number three. The blame was on us both when it came to a screeching halt a second too late, and I didn’t halt at all but rather took off at higher speed in a different direction.

 

“Soaring” was perhaps an exaggeration, one that you must forgive me and place under “artistic liberties” but I really did have time to ponder any last farewells I would make if I could. There was no life passing by, because as far as I had been concerned up until that moment, real life was yet to pass, and so I prioritized pondering my sortie as I was thrown off Grandma’s bike, off the road and to no greater surprise than my own, _not_ into a cornfield.  

 

I blinked repeatedly, waiting for gravity to kick in and give me back my bearings. My glasses had taken their own flight but the colors were enough: cerulean up, gold down. I blinked yet again, as a high pitched scream reached my ears.

 

“ARE YOU QUITE ALRIGHT, OR AT LEAST ALIVE?” the shout enquired of me.

 

Funny, that was precisely what I had been wondering about Bucky as I raced down the road on a pink scooter and–

 

I sat up.

 

I seemed to have landed in a roadside vegetable stall, which to its credit had not only broken my otherwise perhaps lethal descent, but was also still standing. I had fallen through a tarpaulin canvas roof and onto an assortment of kale and cabbages, the table below still steady – I really did weigh too little for my age. The pickup truck I had so fatefully encountered stood a few feet away with one of its doors open, the driver standing next to it.

 

“ARE YOU STILL AMONG THE LIVING?” the same shouting voice demanded to know, and I turned to face the man staffing this life saving vegetable stall, who I even without clear vision recognized as the enthusiastic protector of the Great Lakes, Namor. He strode forward and leaned way too close over me. And ah, he was wearing an apron with the very sane, not at all worrying slogan “ _Save the fish, eat a pescetarian_.”

 

“Yes,” I said. I was also breathing and moving, which in my book was sufficient answer enough.

 

He nodded and spun around to face the driver, who was now holding on to his knees and sighing loudly with relief.

 

“ARE YOU IN ANY FIT STATE TO BE DRIVING THAT DEATH MACHINE?” Namor’s shout demanded next. To be fair, he could have addressed that question to me as well. Though I didn’t exactly drive a “death machine” I was probably not in a fit state to drive anything, ever.

 

But the pickup driver was the one being questioned.

 

“I didn’t see him!” he said in alarm. An unusually normal answer for a citizen of this town, I thought, but fully understandable during the circumstances.

 

“Me neither,” I said, getting to my feet and finding that yes, they were with me still, as steady as they ever were. “I should have been paying more attention, sorry.”

 

“No, kid, it’s me who should–”

 

“It’s alright, sir, I just really need to–”

 

“IT IS NOT ALRIGHT, YOU SHOULD BOTH–”

 

“I’m sorry, which of these roads will take me to the IA-60?”

 

I was more disoriented than usual, and both men both fell silent at my question.

 

“That one,” they said in calm unison, pointing.

 

“Thank you. You didn’t happen to see where my glasses landed, did you?”

 

“Approximately four feet to your right.”

 

“Oh, I’ll get them for you, bud, hang tight…”

 

“Right,” I said with a nod, pushed my scratched, dusty but otherwise functional glasses back on, and ran up to the scooter which lay abandoned on its side in the middle of the road.

 

_Please, please work, you insufferable ugly machine. Without Bucky you’d have ended up on a junk yard, don’t let me down…_

 

I managed to get it upright again, turned the keys to hear the sweetest sound imaginable: that of a scooter motor humming.

 

“Hey kid, maybe you shouldn’t–”

 

“YOU DEFINITELY SHOULDN’T.”

 

But this was not the day were I would argue with the angry townspeople, whether they were giving me sound advice or no. I sat up on the bike and took off down the road in the direction they both had pointed me in. I tried cranking up the speed as much as I could, not paying attention to any stuttering objections the pink scooter uttered in response. The wind resistance made my eyes water, but who cared about good vision at this stage! Just let me get there, you darn excuse of a bike! You don’t even have a, what’s it called, rocket cowl? Come on!

 

I didn’t have the road to myself much longer, and as I turned on to the US-75 and the signs for Sioux City multiplied, I found myself maneuvering not only my own vehicle, but around others. The one or two traffic lights we passed I ignored, escaping any collisions this time. It hit me head-on however, that I did not know at all what this Sergeant Floyd monument looked like. Was it a bust, like the one outside the school grounds? Was it a fountain, some sort of statue? What had Grandma called it, an _obelisk?_ I had a vague idea of its position, on the south side of town by the Missouri River. And now the river was quickly approaching – and I saw it! From the corner of my eye I caught sight of the white stone pillar, and managed to (illegally, I’m sure) turn right onto Interstate 29 instead of driving straight ahead and across the Nebraska border. And in what was without competition my most reckless and unlawful move yet, I drove the scooter off the road entirely and across the lawn up towards the monument, which stood tall and abandoned apart from a group of, ah, what’s a polite term, colorful people? Around them stood their equally, hm, fashionized bikes and I slammed the brakes for the first time since starting my journey. I couldn’t judge if it was due to my negligence or incapability, or a side effect of the crash earlier, but the bike decided to keep going regardless, and I with it, then without it as I toppled over and the bike overturned and began spewing black smoke.

 

“Steve! What the hell are you doing here?”

 

I could never have imagined feeling that kind of relief and… other emotions, as I head Bucky’s call. I crawled into an upright position and looked around me.

 

The high number of bikers assembled for the meeting surprised me a little. Obviously the plan to bring together every (mostly) female gang in the northwest had been successful, because this group was much bigger than The Bunheads and Hydra could possibly make up on their own. Maybe I was indeed in the presence of the majority of Iowa’s girl bikers. I searched the crowd for familiar faces, and found a few.

 

There was Sif, in all her Minnesotan Viking glory, piercings everywhere, dark hair tied up in braids, arms covered in Norse tattoos and still wearing that fugly pleather vest.  

 

A few steps away stood the May sisters: Melinda dressed from head to toe in black leather and sporting the harshest death glare I’d ever seen under her heavy fringe, and Skye, Bucky’s supposedly best friend. The red dipdye I heard she’d gotten for Natasha’s send-off had faded to orange now, which stood out against her smudged blue eyeliner.

 

And in a long dark coat with a turned up collar I recognized my neighbor Maria Hill, stoic looking and with her arms crossed.

 

They had been the core of The Bunheads, and now all stood a bit apart in what I was hoping was unwillingness to conform to whatever torture the new gang were going to put Bucky through.

 

Oh Bucky. He was on his knees in the midst of the group, defiantly looking up at a girl who could be none other than Pierce. She was would-end-up-on-a-front cover-if-she-went-to-California pretty with high cheekbones, pale skin and long, strawberry blonde hair. She was taller than Bucky and held herself regally, like she could trample the rest of humanity under her cowboy boots. To the seldom asked question “What would have happened if Taylor Swift had been born in Iowa?”, Alexandra Pierce was the answer.

 

“That’s that kid he’s been running after,” someone said, a male voice to my great surprise. “He’s the one who pulled off that scheme at the casinos, and got Bucky his modelling gigs.”

 

I located a tall, brawny guy in black standing next to Pierce and barely had time to wonder who he was before Bucky spat:

 

“Shut the fuck up, Rumlow.”

 

Oh wasn’t that picturesque, Bucky’s old nemesis had chosen to make a reappearance in the story! Tacky move, narratively speaking.

 

Pierce raised an eyebrow and shrugged ever so slightly.

 

“Good. He can stay and watch Bucky draw the line, always good to have an audience. We will show him what biker justice looks like.”

 

I grit my teeth, squinted a bit and that was when it dawned on me. The long, blood red pleather coat she was wearing had come from Grandma’s stash! Not only was she going to kick the living hell out of Bucky, she was going to do it while wearing clothes he had got for her.

 

That’s when I stood up.

 

Two girls that had come up behind me stopped, one wearing a purple jumpsuit and a ponytail, the other an odd attempt at a star spangled banner cosplay. I had no idea where their loyalties lied and didn’t really care. The latter wheezed “I’d stay down if I were you.”

 

“If you were me you’d be able to do a cross-stitch properly,” I shot back without facing them, and turned instead to Grandma’s crashed bike.  

 

“I already told you, I’m more than willing to draw the line for you, Pierce. But I’m not sure it would count as justice, since I don’t know what I’d be doing it for,” Bucky said, his voice low. Still, he didn’t sound very angry.

 

“You really are dumber than you look in your ads, aren’t you, pretty boy?” Pierce said. “But I can spell it out for you: because you’re fucking up team discipline. We’ve got certain rules, we got a code. Shouldn’t be calling yourself a biker if you don’t even know that much.”

 

“Since when do we have a code against modelling? That must be a new one since you took charge, I don’t remember Nat ever saying that.”

 

“Leadership change,” Pierce gnarled. “No one fucking cares what bullshit your precious Nat told you. If you ask me, allowing you into her gang just shows what a shitty leader she was.”

 

Bucky gave a little jump, as if his first instinct was to physically rush to Natasha’s defense, but thought better of it.

 

It didn’t escape Pierce though.

 

“But she did teach you to be loyal I see. And this is how you repay her? You’ve been in the Bunheads a long time, Bucky. You gotta set an example for the new members. And what do you do? You run off and do this modelling shit, and hang around losers like that kid over there, while the rest of us are working hard at uniting all the girl gang’s in northwestern Iowa. What do you think that looks like?”

 

“I don’t know what it looks like to you, but from where I’m standing I think it’s pretty clear. I always put the team first, my job at Mack’s second. This modelling thing is really just something I do on the side when I have time. I’ve always drawn a line right there.”

 

“Maybe my eyesight’s gone bad then, cause I can’t see it.”

 

Bucky nodded.

 

“I’m beginning to see that.”

 

“No, you’re the one who’s not seeing things! There’s a bigger picture here, alright? Do you think I have nothing better to do with my time than arguing with punks like you? But this isn’t my personal call anymore. Iowa’s gotta unite – and that’s a direct order. From the Winter Biker herself.”

 

In another tacky development in the story, a hushed whisper went through the group as this urban, or rather rural, legend was mentioned.

 

“The Winter Biker?” Bucky repeated, seemingly as dumbstruck as the others.

 

“The one and only. She called me up and told me to join with the Bunheads first, and then the others.”

 

“Huh. Doesn’t that make you her puppet?” Bucky asked, sounding amused.

 

Pierce frowned, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone.

 

“What?”

 

“The Winter Biker ordered you to do this? You say you’re our leader, but you’re taking orders from someone else? Doesn’t that just make you a puppet? The Winter Biker’s pulling all your strings.”

 

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Rumlow barked, but when did Bucky ever?

 

“And as far as I can see, she’s not here right now. If what you’re saying is true–”

 

“You calling me a _liar_?”

 

“Then the Winter Biker’s our leader. If she wants me to draw the line, then fine. But for you, Pierce? I’m not fucking doing it.”

 

Bucky stood up now, brushing off his knees.

 

“Why did you want to be a biker in the first place, Pierce? ‘Cause I know I did it because I wanted to get away from people telling me what to do, from jerks like Rumlow here pushing me around, from whatever useless system someone would try and use to control me. And I know it was the same for a lot of people in the Bunheads too. Cause when everyone else was treating us like shit, at least we had each other, and we could tell them to go screw themselves _together_. But what you’ve got going with the Winter Biker sounds a whole lot like what we were running away from. And if you’re just a freaking tool for someone else now, then I don’t respect you anymore.”

 

Pierce rolled her eyes.

 

“What the hell do you even know about respect, Bucky? Listen to you, talking about the fucking “system” and all that crap. Grow up, will you? ‘Cause that’s what we’re doing. Being in a gang isn’t a kid’s game.”

 

“Well, maybe it is to me. If I have to sell out all that I believe in to ride with you, then I won’t. I’ll ride by myself and let you grown-ups do whatever you want.”

 

“And what about your friends? You gonna sell out your teammates like that and just leave? After all we’ve done for you? All we’re asking is that you draw the line today and repay what you’ve done, then we can forget all about this. Or what, you telling me you’re going to walk out on us for that fucking little kid, after all that we’ve been through? That sounds like selling out to me.”

 

“Who says I’m doing any of this for him?”

 

“I am. It’s one or the other.”

 

“This fucking little kid has a name, okay? If even a dipshit like Rumlow can learn it, so can you. But maybe you’ve got people doing all your brainwork for you, back at your mansion or whatever.”

 

Bucky’s eyes were glaring, but his face looked passive. He did a dramatic shrug and put his hands in his pockets.

 

“It’s Steve, for the record. And as far as I know, we’re not friends. I used to say we were, and he never said it back, not even once. He didn’t even want to know me, let alone be friends. But thanks to you Pierce, I think I finally figured out why. Because to you, it’s all so important that we’re friends with everyone, as long as we do as you say, as long we’re here to back you up. This isn’t a freaking support group, okay? I’m not here just so you don’t have to be alone. That’s all it is to you, you’re just afraid to be on your own. So you only want someone, anyone, there to hold your hand, and then you tell each other shit about being good friends, and make up rules that you can’t break, and codes to keep. Anyone who says anything differently gets left behind. How’s that for loyalty? Steve here, he’s alone all the time. So he doesn’t listen to anybody else’s fucking rules, unlike you pathetic sheep.”

 

“And you’re so freaking independent?” Pierce spat, coming up close to Bucky’s face. “You’re stabbing us in the back for him, who doesn’t even like you?”

 

“Yeah, I’m stabbing you in the back if that’s what you wanna call it. Whatever friendship this is, it’s just shallow and pretend, and I don’t want it.”

 

“So you’re quitting the team?”

 

“Yup. In this kind of team, I’m alone anyway.”

 

For the first time since I arrived, Bucky turned towards his original gang. Skye fidgeted, her lips trembling, but she didn’t say anything. May looked on guard, as if she was gearing up to fight. Who, I didn’t want to think about. Sif looked angry, fists clenched. She nodded at Bucky, ever so slightly, but he didn’t seem any surer about the meaning than I was. Only Maria remained as frozen before, completely unreadable.

 

“Anyone’s free to leave,” Pierce said slowly. “But they’ve gotta draw the line about that first.”

 

Quick enough that I almost missed it, she aimed a perfect punch at Bucky’s face with a closed fist, strong enough to make him fall over. Skye moved forward, but May’s arm flew out and grabbed her before Pierce had time to notice.

 

Bucky himself barely flinched as he sat up, looking at Pierce.

 

“You running on repeat today, Pierce? If you’re so hell-bent on drawing the line, how about you do it yourself?” He spat out some blood. “That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? If everyone isn’t constantly scared of you, they might start questioning you, and then one day you’re suddenly the one drawing the line. And you’re too weak to handle that, aren’t you? Well, I’m not helping you out here. I’ve got no reason to draw a line for you.”

 

“Who do you think you’re talking to, asshole?” Pierce said, laughing. “I don’t know what cutesy things you were doing down in Simonville, but in Turrington we were the real deal, okay? Do you think I became the leader of Hydra by just playing nice? I’ve drawn the line plenty of times before. Do you think the Winter Biker would have approached me if I hadn’t? She has no time for weakness.”

 

“Then I suggest you stop wasting her time and get the fuck out of here,” Bucky shot back.

 

“Oh, I will. As soon as I’ve taken out the trash.”

 

She lashed out at Bucky again, this time with a kick that hit him straight in the abdomen. It pushed him far away enough to give him space to get up and as Pierce aimed a second kick, Bucky managed to jump away. He was crouching down, and I could imagine it clearly how he had used the same move in his first fight with Rumlow years ago. Bucky took another blow to the face, but when Pierce retreated to her signature kick, he managed to grab her leg and yank her off balance. That was all the momentum he needed to give her a good hit to the face, and then Bucky was holding her down, having come down on top much quicker than Pierce had anticipated, judging by her shocked and outraged face.

 

Then the horrible crushing sound of a swinging metal baseball bat hitting a target reached my ears, as Rumlow joined the fray. He brought the bat down again on Bucky’s back before he could even try to roll over, and even then a girl was standing above him, kicking him hard in the chest.

 

“This was supposed to be one on one!” Bucky said, spitting more blood.

 

“You don’t get the first thing about friendship,” the girl who’d kicked him sneered back. “We fight _together_.”

 

She certainly meant that, and in a few moments even more girls threw themselves into the throng. Bucky held his ground fairly well I must say, managing to snatch Rumlow’s bat from him and crushing his fist straight into the “friends fight together” girl’s nose. But even so, he was terribly outnumbered, and Pierce egged her fighters viciously on. One kicked Bucky’s legs out from under him, and another grabbed the bat back, leaving another three to hold him down. Rumlow had retreated a little, wiping off a busted lip.

 

Pierce stood tall before Bucky, kicking dirt in his face.

 

“Tell me, Bucky,” she mused. “If you have no friends, who fights with you?”

 

For three months, I’d been reminding Bucky Barnes on an almost daily basis that I didn’t want to be his friend. Today, it seemed like the message had finally been received. He was right in what he had said, and judging by how he had said it, he didn’t need me to fight this battle for him or help him in some other way, no matter what I had been thinking when I got onto my grandmother’s scooter. I was a non-friend who couldn’t even drive. But as Rumlow and Pierce’s other goons ganged up on him, I was suddenly and fully reminded of why I had come here in the first place.

 

I was doing this all for the boy.

 

Me.

 

I looked down at Grandma’s scooter next to me, with its black smoke and burning smell. If I drove it into the gang I could have a chance at knocking a good few of them down, but it seemed unlikely that this bike would ever drive again. My only available weapon was seemingly useless, but it was still there.

 

And improvisation _is_ an artist’s best friend.

 

I grabbed the steering wheel and the seat, pulling the bike to standing. Then I squatted, changed my grip and in what was perhaps a crazy case of newfound, corn-fed strength, managed to lift the bike off the ground. Whatever miracle had just been granted me wouldn’t last long, so I concentrated all I could on spinning around, hurling the bike through the air and straight onto the backs of several Hydra members.

 

For one moment, almost as bewildering to the gang as it was to me, everyone stopped in their tracks and turned to me, staring. While most looked understandably baffled, Pierce looked livid.

 

Next to me on the ground, the few red water balloons left in the bike’s basket had finally rolled out. On a whimsical whim, I picked one of them up and hurled it straight at Alexandra Pierce’s too pretty face.

 

“You sorry fucking bitches, you fuck with me and I’ll make you regret it.”

 

Let’s continue the tacky storytelling with an unnecessary and involuntary flashback scene: When I was eleven years old, I happened to stumble upon a shakedown between the Tracksuit Mafia and some sorry old bloke on a backstreet in Sparks. Being the utterly useless gangsters that they were, the Tracksuit Mafia’s main operation at the time had been something so pathetically far removed from proper crime as _extreme couponing_ . And this guy, whoever he was, had called their bluff and alerted all grocery stores in the area. I quickly decided that this was a backstreet I would not be dying on and quickly got the hell out of there, but not before hearing what I since then always assumed became the guy’s last words: _You sorry fucking bitches, you fuck with me and I’ll make you regret it_.

 

And naturally, those were the words I saw fit to invoke now.

 

“I’m getting real tired of your shitty chit-chat about loyalty, Pierce. What the fuck do you know about it?”

 

I hurled the second balloon, at her chest this time, and she – actually gasped.

 

“What do you want?” she said quietly and furiously. I stepped forward, but not before picking up the remaining balloons. In some absurd way they seemed to have effect, even if I was unsure just what kind. I glanced over at Bucky quickly, noticing how the girls holding him down were all perfectly still, probably awaiting Pierce’s orders. I had to stall as long as I could, even with a tactic as stupid as throwing Fourth of July water balloons.

 

“For you to let him go, right this second. And – and to stop spreading that shit about the Winter Biker.”

 

She blinked.

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me. You say you’re doing all this for her? That is a goddamn lie.”

 

Pierce looked genuinely uncertain, and shifted her gaze.

 

“What would you know about that?” she tried to sneer, but it came out too feeble.

 

“I know this ain’t her style. Unite northwestern Iowa’s girl gangs? Do you really think the Winter Biker would bother uniting scum like you? Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

“How would you know what her style is?” the rumbling voice of Rumlow interrupted. “You’re not even a biker.”

 

“Because I know _her_. She’s my mother.”

 

Shush now with your little chorus of “whaaat,” dear readers, I was trying to tell an intricate lie here!

 

“You think she disappeared from the biker scene all those years ago ‘cause she was defeated? To lick her wounds? You think you were all part of some big comeback plan? Don’t make me laugh!”

 

I threw another balloon, splashing the girls around Bucky.

 

“She found love – and she lost him to these stupid biker wars. So she left, moved on to better things. I’m not one of you, you’re right, but I’m hell of a lot more biker than you will ever be. And I don’t,” another splash, “ _appreciate it_ ,” splash, “when you tarnish my mother’s name like that.”

 

“Okay, okay, let him go! Let him fucking go!” Pierce shouted. The girls scurried to their feet, jumping away from Bucky as if from a fire. He rose slowly, keeping his eyes on them the whole time, and, fittingly enough, pulled a lighter I didn’t know he had from his pocket, lighting it.

 

“I’m quitting the team,” he said, walking up to stand next to me. “So should you, Pierce. If I were you, I might just quit being a biker altogether. Because you’ve burned a lot of bridges tonight.”

 

“To the Winter Biker _herself_ , even,” I added.

 

Keeping his eyes on the flame in his hand, Bucky walked through the group towards his bike, people parting freely around him. I shot a look back at Pierce, who sank down on the ground, before I followed.

 

Bucky turned the ignition and waited for me to climb on the bike, all the while holding the lighter out. He flicked it off and jumped on the bike, giving a little chuckle before stating:

 

“For the record, _this_ is how you draw the line.”

 

He kicked off the ground then and drove us down the hill, in a different direction and onto a much more sensible route than I had arrived on. We drove for a few minutes in an adrenaline rush-induced silence, before Bucky broke out into laughter.

 

“Gotta say that was one impressive weapon you brought to the fight.”

 

“What, Grandma’s bike?”

 

“No, the balloons! I never knew you could be so terrifying.”

 

“I panicked, okay. Weren’t many other options available…”

 

“That’s how you explain throwing a freaking scooter at someone, the balloons though, that takes planning. You came ready to kill.”

 

“What? I absolutely did not.”

 

“You don’t need many, but with the balloons you had, someone would’ve been seriously burned – I was hoping you’d hit Rumlow, actually…”

 

“Burned? What are you talking about? What do you do with them at Fourth of July?”

 

Bucky brought the bike to a stop, and turned towards me, eyes wide. We were in the city now, fittingly enough right by a Costco parking lot.

 

“Fourth of July?” he repeated incredulously.

 

“Yeah, those were the balloons left that Grandma filled, she never explained what they were for.”

 

“So what was in them…”

 

“Water?”

 

“ _Water?_ ”

 

“What did you think was in them?!”

 

Bucky turned around so much that he nearly fell off the seat.

 

“Gasoline, Steve! That’s a classic old biker thing, the easiest bomb to build. Old turf wars and shit like that, they were pretty common.”

 

My mouth actually fell open at this development of what had been, without competition, the most stupid thing I’d ever done.

 

“So you thought I came to _bomb_ you out?”

 

“That’s why I lit the lighter! But damn, I was terrified, and you acting so cool…”

 

“I was throwing water balloons and lying my ass off…”

 

Bucky laughed.

 

“You acted like a real biker. And you always said we were so uncool.”

 

He sniveled, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. It came out bloody.

 

“Hey,” I said, laughter, adrenaline and absurdity dying down. “Are you okay?” From what I’d seen, he could very well have a concussion and a few broken ribs, apart from his bleeding nose and lips.

 

He nodded quickly, and I stopped him before he assured me that he’d been through worse.

 

“And I mean, will you be alright riding on your own from now?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I be, when I’ve got the Winter Biker’s son looking out for me?”

 

“You don’t think that lie’s going to get you into trouble? If the story spreads, I mean.”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow, turning forwards again.

 

“You mean, will the actual Winter Biker be pissed that some kid in Iowa who can’t even drive is pretending to be her son?”

 

“Yeah, or whatever,” I said squirming. “Or if other biker’s take offense on her part…”

 

Bucky snorted.

 

“Only delusional ones. See, the Winter Biker, she doesn’t even exist.”

 

This time I lead my own one-man chorus of “whaaat.”

 

Bucky peeked over his shoulder, looking sheepish.

 

“See, back in middle school, before Natasha and everything, I still had this fantasy of this really cool person swooping in and saving me… I made up this entire person, a really cool biker chick who just fought for what she believed in, played for no teams and set her own rules. And we got this writing assignment one day to write a story about a hero, so I chose her. I didn’t know what to call her at all so I just made something up: “Most bikers say she doesn’t even exist, but the ones who do call her the Winter Biker.” Totally lame, I know. But I liked how the story turned out, and so on a complete whim I sent it to a biker’s magazine, thinking they’d just throw it away. But they printed it and this whole cult was born, and people started saying they saw her… I mean, I couldn’t say it was a lie! Besides… everyone really seemed to like her, and it made me proud.”

 

“Hang on. That means you also made up the part about her bike? That Shield painted it?”

 

“Oh, that was actually someone else who added that later. I don’t think I knew about Shield when I wrote it.”

 

“But then you knew that Shield was also fake! Why did you insist on looking for it?!”

 

“Shield _isn’t_ fake! That is, or at least was a real thing! I guess it just made sense for people that the Winter Soldier would be the kind of client that they’d take on. I just used her as an example because I don’t actually know someone who has their work on their bike…”

 

“Yeah well, as we’ve established today already, Iowa bikers play in quite a different league from the Winter Biker,” I concluded.

 

“Yeah. Fucking Pierce, “It’s a direct order from…” As soon as she said it, it all became clear that she’s just a snotty little brat, wanting power.”

 

“Did you really need that lie to make that clear to you?”

 

“Listen, the one who brought water balloons to a biker fight doesn’t get to call others stupid, okay?”

 

“Yeah, but I don’t listen to anyone, remember?”

 

Bucky turned the ignition and got us running again, at a slower speed now.

 

“I’m taking you home now, and you have no say in the matter. I’ll get Mack to drive down here tomorrow to pick up your grandma’s bike, okay? I’ll fix it up for her.”

 

“I’m sorry for making you do it all over again.”

 

“Don’t be, it’s the least I can do. I owe you so much already.”

 

I was about to protest, not like I usually did, but to say that I’d done what I did freely and would do it again without hesitation. Then I realized that that meant something else entirely: that I was the one who owed him.

 

But before I could decide to say anything, Bucky laughed, bubbling, like he couldn’t keep it in.

 

“In fact, I owe you so much now that I could never pay it back,” he said. “I’m not even sure that I want to, I’m gonna keep the lot of it.”

 

_I owe you so much, Bucky, and I am never giving any of it back_ , I thought _. I’m keeping it, I’m keeping all of it_.

 

Then Bucky said,

 

“I’ll go to the end of the road with you, too.”

 

I leant my face against his back. He smelled like he usually did, of dust, gasoline and cloves but now it was mixed with blood and mud. I thought, _I’ve already gone to that end with you, and I’ll gladly do it again._

 

Bucky pressed play on the boombox, and when a group of Japanese girls sang that everything would be alright, I felt compelled to agree.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there you guys, at the end of our road together. Final chapter + monologue will be posted in the next few days and will hopefully relieve you of election anxiety for a few seconds. But before that, tomorrow, my dear Americans friends, you'll all go out and send a Midwestern gal to the White House, do you hear me?! Do it for yourselves, for the world, and not the least for Hillary Rodham Barnes, who's counting on it.
> 
> I expect I don't really need to write this disclaimer out, but: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. And I mean both driving a tiny scooter down a freeway, but also in general terms of directions. They're all from Google Maps and are at best only merely accurate, lol. The gang fighting too. Don't. 
> 
> "I was doing this all for the boy. Me." is a paraphrase of a quote from Caitlin Moran's _How to Build a Girl_ '. Another great book you should all read!
> 
> The song playing as Bucky & Steve drive back home to Simonville is [Stamp!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bLJHbKqYcqw) by SCANDAL. <3


	23. Impression, Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt Bucky moving beside me and I turned to look at him. As if somebody had pressed an alarm, I became acutely aware that my heart was beating faster and that I had more adrenalin rushing through my system than I had had only a few moments before. 
> 
> What do you think, dear and esteemed reader? Do you think that the universe let me have this moment? Do you think that, after all this time, things would work out at the first try and go off without a glitch?

“ _For love is like a tree; it grows of itself, strikes its roots deep into our being, and often continues to flourish and keep green over a heart in ruins. And the inexplicable part of it is, that the blinder this passion the more tenacious is it. It is never more firmly seated than when it has no sort of reason_.”

– **_The Hunchback of Notre-Dame_ ** **, Victor Hugo**

 

The road already travelled seemed longer on the trip home, but I didn’t mind in the slightest as we slowly made our way back home along the highway, me holding on with no intention of letting go. The exact words didn’t make themselves known to my subconscious until my house came into vision, but I knew that I’d had the thought with me the whole journey.

 

It was almost dark now, and yet as we pulled up outside the fence and the wide open gate, I immediately caught sight of my mother pacing the yard. She came to a full stop as Bucky stopped the bike and watched us like a hawk as we got off, surely counting to make sure that we had all our limbs with us.

 

“Thank fucking _God_ ,” she said with a sigh, and rushed towards us. She stopped mere inches away, looking us over. “Are you alright?” she demanded and waited for two affirmative answers before pulling us both in for a hug. My mother rarely swore, and you could tell why she had by the way she hugged us to her so tight.

 

I saw Grandma on the porch, standing in the open door, hands on her hips, knowing smirk on her face.

 

Mom pulled back, hands holding our arms tightly as she scrutinized our faces.

 

“You are hurt,” she stated simply, her nursing side assessing damages on sight.

 

“I’m not,” I replied quickly, deciding to forget my rendezvous with the pick-up truck and Namor’s stall for all foreseeable future.

 

She nodded once, then linked her arm through Bucky’s.

 

“Then let’s get you patched up,” she said steadily, leading him towards to house. As they passed through the door, Grandma patted his shoulder lightly before turning to me.

 

She grinned, showing all her teeth.

 

“Sometimes you just gotta,” she said.

 

In the kitchen, mom had her first aid kit, significantly bigger than the average household’s, prepared since long before we arrived together with towels and warm water and she had already put on a pair of gloves, her fingers gently searching Bucky’s face for fractures.

 

I remained standing in the door, watching her work. Grandma cleared her throat next to me.

 

“I’ll put some hot cocoa on for you both,” she offered.

 

“Like the rest of us haven’t also had a stressful evening,” mom muttered without looking up from dabbing Bucky’s lip with a cotton swab.

 

“For all of us,” Grandma corrected herself. She nodded at me. “You got mud all over you. Go up and wash it off and let your mother work in peace. She’s had a _stressful_

 _evening_.”

 

“Yes, Gran,” I said, grateful to follow a simple command. Bucky turned his head slightly, his eyes looking for mine. I found myself returning a smile to him, before heading upstairs. But of course, I wasn’t the only one covered in dirt, so Grandma sent Bucky off to the shower too as soon as I returned and so it was almost a full hour later when we were ordered down on the sofa with a steaming mug each, patched up and wearing pajamas, and with mom harshly interrogating just how much trouble we were mixed up in. Grandma popped her head in to inform us that she’d called Anika Barnes to let her know that her son was staying over, and that she’d put an extra mattress in my room for him.

 

When mom eventually let us go, I was feeling an exhaustion not too different from when I worked all night on Bucky’s painting, and I almost thought I was dreaming as Grandma stopped me by the stairs, whispering a “Good job” at me.

 

“Sometimes you just gotta,” I replied.

 

I woke up first the following morning, closer to noon than actual morning. I was lying on my stomach, the side of my face buried deep in the mattress and my right arm hanging down the side of the bed. It was almost touching Bucky’s hand on the floor next to me. Still drowsy, I rose on my elbows to grab my glasses off the nightstand and with careful deliberation I attempted to climb off the bed without it creaking too much. On tip toes I walked over to the window to pull the blind, and the strong sunlight burned my eyes for a moment. When they focused again I spotted a flash of red in the yard. I blinked and took in the sight for a few moments, before dropping the blind and turning around.

 

“Bucky,” I whispered as I sat down next to him. “Bucky.”

 

I repeated his name a few times but didn’t get a reaction until I tapped his shoulder softly. He was lying on his side facing my bed, with his back towards me, and tipped over grunting something unintelligible in response.

 

“Get up,” I said. “There’s something you have to see.”

 

He sat up without responding, detangling from the sheets and stood up swaying. I opened the door and headed for the stairs on soft feet, Bucky shuffling behind me without a word.

 

I opened the front door and went out onto the porch. Bucky followed me, but stopped abruptly and shook his head, as if he really woke up when stepping outside. He was staring at the same flash of red that I had spotted from my window.

 

Next to Bucky’s bike by the fence, now stood the battle scared scooter that belonged to Grandma. To both of them, a cluster of red helium balloons were tied. There were writings on them in black felt pen, and apart from Cyrillic and Chinese Hanzi characters, I also spotted runes.

 

Bucky swallowed deep and walked towards them barefoot. I waited a few seconds before following him. He stood before the bikes, slowly tracing the writing with his fingers.

 

“This one,” he said slowly, pointing to a Hanzi sign. “It means friendship.” His voice was very quiet.

 

I nodded slowly and tried to lean forward to get a look on his face. He was smiling.

 

“And this is Russian for friend,” he said and pointed again.

 

“I figured.”

 

Bucky turned to me, the smile on his face growing as worry slipped out of his eyes.

 

“Maybe things will work out with the gang after all,” he said, daring to sound cautiously optimistic.

 

“You gave quite the speech on friendship yesterday, maybe they learned something,” I reminded him.

 

Bucky didn’t answer at first, just looked down and bopped the balloons carefully with his fingers.

 

“I think they learned more from you, actually,” he said quietly.

 

“Are you boys ready for some brunch?” Grandma called from inside, freeing me from having to think of an answer to that.

 

I only had to smile and go back indoors, Bucky by my side.

 

“Your hay fever,” Bucky said as we were drying the dishes a few hours later. “Do you have any medicine for that?”

 

“Yeah,” I answered, handing him a cup to place on a shelf above my reach. “Why do you ask?” It was a strange topic to bring up now.

 

“Just wondering. Is it really bad still, or is it only in spring?”

 

“It’s better in the summer, but we’re in the country so, still not great.”

 

“Okay. But if you took your medicine… could you be close to hay without issues?”

 

I shrugged.

 

“That’s what the pharmaceutical companies would like me to believe. Again, why do you ask?”

 

Bucky took extra care in wiping the plate he was holding, biting his lip and not meeting my eyes. He put the plate down and seemed to draw his breath.

 

“There’s this place I wanted to show you,” he said quickly.

 

I narrowed my eyes at him. The prospect of being “close to hay” was not appealing and despite my newly found trust in Bucky, this sounded highly suspicious and yet intriguing.

 

“Okay,” I decided eventually.

 

“Okay?” Bucky asked, smiling in a way that displayed a kind of happiness that did not really put me at ease, for more reasons than just worry about hay.

 

I dug through the medicine cabinet for anti-histamines to swallow (under Bucky’s supervision) and also took some nose spray just to be on the safe side. If the previous twenty four hours of my (newly accepted) friendship with Bucky had to be described by any one word, that word surely wasn’t “safe,” and I had used up my stock of risk-taking for the foreseeable future. Bucky seemed to be on the same page, because after we’d driven off on his bike, he insisted on stopping by the pharmacy counter at Costco’s first to replenish my stock (“You won’t enjoy the Midwestern summer properly if these allergies are holding you back,” he nagged, channeling mom and Grandma both. I rolled my eyes and complied, letting him buy me another pack of Claritin knock-offs.)

 

As we drove through the identical fields I had no idea where we were going or whatever it was that Bucky wanted to show me, right until he stopped at a field (that was _not_ used for growing corn!) that had been quite recently harvested. He parked the bike and we walked into the field (“So these fields are okay to run into?” “It’s been harvested, so we’re not causing any damage now. You really need to learn the difference.”) and up to a tall pile of hay bales, stacked like a pyramid.

 

“Here we go,” Bucky stated and started to climb it.

 

“Are we going up there?”

 

“Yes,” Bucky said matter-of-factly and reached down to offer his hand.

 

“Why? Aren’t we _damaging_ the hay or something?”

 

“It’s hay, and you’re not a steamroller. It can handle it. Come on!”

 

Suspicious and reluctant, I still took his hand and began climbing too. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as I had expected. A single bale was placed on top, just wide enough for the both of us to sit on, knees touching. Bucky let me settle down first before sitting himself down on my right.

 

“Look at that,” he said, face turned forward.

 

I looked away from him and turned to look out over the scenery. We were higher than I’d expected and it felt like I could see miles around us of fields in varying shades of yellow, green, brown and gold. But what Bucky meant for me to look at was something else: above these fields that at first were deceivingly alike yet now so unique, was a broad and gradient sunset with the sun hanging low in the sky. With all due reference to _Aqua Sol_ , _Iowa Sol_ was no less spectacular. It was palpable and real, within my immediate grasp, and it captured something that Sir Erskine had yet to immortalize for me. This sunset was right there and now.

 

“I don’t think you could get this view anyplace else,” Bucky mused.

 

“No,” I agreed.

 

I felt Bucky moving beside me and I turned to look at him. As if somebody had pressed an alarm, I became acutely aware that my heart was beating faster and that I had more adrenalin rushing through my system than I had had only a few moments before.

 

What do you think, dear and esteemed reader? Do you think that the universe let me have this moment? Do you think that, after all this time, things would work out at the first try and go off without a glitch?

 

Well. Your faith in me is much appreciated, albeit a tad unrealistic.

 

My chest ticked away ever faster and I had a momentary feeling of feeling every single rib surrounding my heart and lungs, as if they were holding me back. Still I was frozen on that hay bale, fingers digging deep into it and splinters digging right back into my palms and I watched as Bucky ever so slightly leaned forward.

 

Lean forward. That was the path to success, it was an entrepreneur theory or something, right? How you got ahead in life, how you improved, how you got further. How you took things to the next step. I leaned forward too.

 

In the moments in my life when I had previously leaned forward, in a less literal way, an almost constant setback had been this: that my body usually preferred to lean in a different direction, and held me back thanks to various ailments.

 

I stared at Bucky without really seeing him, and my eyelids were closing in miniscule movements, and everything was coming closer, closer, closer and my chest really felt like it would explode, but in a different way now, no, wait, _wait–_

 

I sneezed. I sneezed because of hay fever, and pharmaceutical companies not holding their promises, and providence and the universe not letting me have this moment – I sneezed and jumped, knocking into Bucky and _knocking him off the hay stack._

 

“Bucky!” I yelled as I watched him tumble down the pyramid.

 

_Great, Steve. Yesterday you saved his neck, and today you break it._

 

The hay was the cause of this turn of unfortunate events, but also the saving grace: it’s soft to fall on and Bucky managed to break his tumbling before he hit the ground.

 

“I’m okay!” he called as he struggled to the upright position. “I’m okay.”

 

He shook his head and got straight up, and began climbing again.

 

The lengths this boy would go for me.

 

“Are you okay?” I still had to ask as he reached my level. It felt like my stomach had fallen down together with him, and not returned.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled as he brushed bristles off his clothes. “Are you? Your meds not working?”

 

I sniveled.

 

“I thought they were working just fine…” I said and looked down.

 

“And now?” Bucky was bending his head low, trying to catch a glimpse of my face.

 

I faced him again.

 

“Perfectly fine,” I said with a weak voice, the biggest lie I’d probably ever told him.

 

Nodding, Bucky scooted up next to me again, looking out at the sunset again for what felt like one long, outdrawn moment.

 

My ribcage still felt tight, but empty now: as if a vortex had taken hold in there, keeping me perfectly still and rigid.

 

I felt Bucky moving besides me again and it was if no time had passed, as if he had not just been brusquely pushed off this large pile of newly harvested hay, which smelled like summer and dryness.

 

There was so much to look at: the scenery, the sunset, and mostly Bucky, but my eyes closed outside of my control. Some sights are better accompanied by some darkness, by not seeing.

 

The universe liked to hold me back, that is true, but sometimes it let moments like this slip through, if I only fought a little harder to lean forward into them.

 

And I did. And he kissed me. And I kissed him back.

 

I had my first kiss with Bucky Barnes in Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207 and all this time, the universe had been hard at work at letting me have this. At letting us have this.

 

“Okay,” Bucky panted some all-too-short time later. “How’s the breathing?”

 

I shook my head once and refused to pull away.

 

“Breathing’s overrated,” I answered promptly. “You can get used to living without it.”

 

Having asthma hadn’t been for nothing.

 

He began to laugh at that, and it turned into a silent giggle, but I could still feel it on my lips. He kissed me again, then pulled away for real.

 

“Come on. I can’t make you late for dinner.”

 

He stood up and took one of my hands in his, and despite absolutely not wanting to, I got up too and followed him. The climb down was much harder than the climb up, but it still felt easier somehow. Anything in the whole world would have been easier in that moment.

 

“I’m pretty sure it’ll be worse if I make _you_ late for dinner. They’d be much more disappointed,” I said as I sat down behind Bucky on the bike.

 

He laughed again, turning over his shoulder.

 

“Is that an invitation?”

 

“You have a standing invitation to Grandma’s kitchen, I don’t have any say in this,” I answered and wrapped my arms around him. In a way, it was still as terrifying as the first time I rode with him. Deserted fields at sundown worked the same way as dark deserted streets at night; of course he’ll drive me.

 

“I’m so lucky to have your grandmother on my side,” Bucky said as he turned the ignition.

 

And as you readers will surely agree, so was I.

 

Walking across the yard that night felt the same as the day before, and yet entirely different: as if we were coming off a battlefield, but after entirely different battles. Before we left that afternoon, we had moved all balloons to Grandma’s scooter, and there they remained. Bucky bumped his fist against them when he passed, a tiny smile on his lips.

 

Dinner that night was lighter than yesternight though, less laden with heaviness. Less like we’d fought something and more like maybe, maybe everything would be alright after all, Iowa and all.

 

The only time it felt unsure, the only little scare that I felt fluttering inside me, was when Grandma asked Bucky a simple question.

 

“Are you staying over tonight, too?”

 

The constant smile that adorned Bucky’s face whenever he sat at our table froze, suspended in time, and I saw his eyes dart nervously over to mine. I didn’t have time to think about what mine said, what my face said or what I would verbally say, until I saw a safe sparkle light up in his eyes, and his smile return to the moving world.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I will,” he said and passed the potatoes.

 

“Good, good,” Grandma and mom said over each other, and I looked down into my plate to prevent laughter coming over my lips.

 

When I entered my bedroom later that evening after having brushed my teeth, I found Bucky sitting on the mattress on the floor, cross-legged and his back against the bed. He was wearing the same pajamas he’d borrowed yesterday, and the same cardigan. He’d let his hair out and it was curling around the ends. He had his eyes and fingers on his phone.

 

“Everything alright?” I asked quietly as I closed the door.

 

“Mmm. Skye texted me.”

 

I sat down next to him, cross-legged too.

 

“She wants to meet tomorrow,” he said and looked at me.

 

“Are you going to?”

 

“I think so. Pierce has a broken nose.” He chuckled.

 

“What? When did that happen?”

 

Bucky chuckled again, his whole body shaking.

 

“After we left. Skye, she… when we drove off, she said it was as if she woke up from some hypnosis. And she just walked up to Pierce, who was still sitting on the ground, you know, and she – she stood in front of her and said, _“You’ll be sorry for this”_ and then hit her smack in the face with a closed fist. I mean, May taught her well.” Bucky was laughing properly now, but tried to keep as quiet as possible and shook even more.

 

“You two really need to come up with a better catchphrase,” I said, not laughing, but it was almost hard to speak when smiling that much.

 

“Nah, I kinda like it. I got a text from Maria as well.”

 

He cleared his throat and sat still.

 

“I mean, not just me, she sent a group text. The gang’s not with Hydra anymore. If the Bunheads are going to ride, we’ll do it alone, just us together.”

 

“Like it was before?”

 

Bucky nodded once, then smiled mischievously.

 

“But I think I could still convince them to let you join, especially after you showed off your fighting skills like that.”

 

I rolled my eyes, not so much due to annoyance anymore, but more to make Bucky laugh.

 

I looked at him, and he looked at me and we both smiled. This time, the second time, I leaned forward first and placed my hand on his neck and kissed him before he kissed me. And before we broke apart, we lied down.

 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” Bucky whispered, almost breaking out in laughter again.

 

“Me too,” I confessed. “But I don’t think I knew that I wanted to.”

 

“I know. You are a colossal idiot when you’re in love.”

 

“That’s entirely your fault.”

 

“I’m fine with taking the blame for that. But you’re pretty stupid on your own.”

 

“Not as stupid as you.”

 

“That’s also your fault.”

 

They say love makes people stupid, but we were stupid to begin with, so the stupidity of us in love was boundless: an infinite heaven of idiocy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infinite idiocy is pretty much what the world feels like right now, but somewhere in a tiny, made up town in Iowa there are two idiotic boys in love and that, as T-Swift put it, is everything. 
> 
> Only the epilogue to go now, folks. <3


	24. Epilogue – The Soy Field Night Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cons of dating a biker gang member: you will, no matter how reluctantly, become a member by association and get asked to participate in their mind boggling shenanigans.

_ “‘Take friendships, for instance. I can think of a lot of cases where the two people have nothing in common. I think there’s a definite reason for every friendship just as there’s a reason why certain atoms unite and others don’t  – certain missing factors in one, or certain present factors in the other – what do you think? I think friendships are the result of certain needs that can be completely hidden from both people, sometimes hidden forever.’”  _

**―** **_Carol_ ** **, Patricia Highsmith**

 

The cons of dating a biker gang member: you will, no matter how reluctantly, become a member by association and get asked to participate in their mind boggling shenanigans.

 

“We’re going to make crop circles in Pierce’s stupid little soy fields,” Skye announced as way of greeting as she called me early one morning. 

 

“We,” I repeated.

 

“Yes, we’re going out there and then you trample the crops to make it look like–”

 

“I know what crop circles are.”

 

“Good, Steve!”

 

“Why do  _ I _ have to come?”

 

Skye huffed on the other end, I could practically hear her pouting. After the confrontation with Hydra almost a month ago, Skye had been adamant in extracting revenge for the Bunheads, but had been struggling to come up with the perfect plan. She’d had her Eureka moment, it seemed.

 

“Well,” she said chirpily. “Think of it as part of your Midwestern high school experience!”

 

I groaned, and a million excuses and rebuttals nagged in my head, but I didn’t end up uttering a single one of them. 

 

“Besides, we need to show them what happens if you cross the Bunheads.”

 

“Haven’t  _ we _ already done that? You broke her nose!”

 

“And you threatened to blow ‘em all up!” She laughed to herself. “Man, that was cool. Stop acting so holier-than-thou, Steve, this will be  _ awesome _ , okay?”

 

Doubting that Skye was sure enough of that term to be using it, I had to grudgingly agree that my feelings towards Hydra and Alexandra Pierce in particular weren’t exactly… benign. 

 

“Fine,” I muttered.

 

“Great! Bucky’ll pick you up later.  _ We strike at midnight _ ,” she announced dramatically and hung up. 

 

It was late and long after dinner when the now so recognizable engine wheezing of Bucky’s bike reached my ears. I ran down the stairs on tiptoes keeping relatively quiet, but Grandma’s voice told me there was no need.

 

“Staying in or going out?” I heard her call from the living room.

 

“We’re going out,” I said, putting my head around the corner to answer her question face to face.

 

She had turned around in her armchair, knitting in her lap, and looked at me with a naughty looking grin that almost made me gulp.

 

“You going out to Turrington to make some crop circles?” she asked.

 

“How did you–?” I began.

 

She waved her hand, literally brushing off the question.

 

“I too used to be a teenager in Iowa. You’re certainly not the first generation to pull these pranks.”

 

Well, not that I would have put it past Grandma to somehow have gotten word of the Bunheads’ operation (Skye might have called her too, they would surely get along great) but this was a very logical answer. The image of Grandma as a teen extracting revenge on her foes in the same fashion that we were about to was… equal amounts terrifying and amusing.

 

A silent knock on the door told me that Bucky was waiting; I had meant to meet him outside but had been held up by Gran.

 

“Say hello to him for me,” she said, waving her hand again but in a shooing manner. “And that I’m still waiting for his parents to come around to dinner!”

 

I rolled my eyes and left without comment; I had been putting off the inevitable big family celebration of our budding love for a while now and planned to keep to that for as  long as possible.

 

I opened the door and stepped quickly outside, closing the door immediately then stopped dead in my tracks.

 

August in the Midwest was balmy and warm even during the few hours of darkness every night, so I wasn’t surprised at Bucky’s cutoff jeans or loose t-shirt but rather…

 

“What are you wearing?” I said, staring incredulously at his face.

 

“It’s black camouflage war paint!” Bucky said chirpily, a tone that didn’t really do the term justice. It was some sort of paint alright, smeared across the top of his cheeks. He almost looked like a football jock, a thought that in of itself made me shudder.

 

“Okay…  _ why _ are you wearing it?”

 

“For stealth. Skye is bringing more, if you want some.”

 

I slowly shook my head, not really feeling the need to turn my face into a canvas for that kind of art, which Bucky accepted easily enough. Skye however, was probably going to  be harder to persuade. 

 

My prediction came true when we met up with other Bunheads at a road crossing somewhere between Simonville and Turrington (I almost wrote “what I believed was somewhere between” but I have to admit that by now I am familiar with this area and its roads well enough to know, rather than just believe).

 

Standing huddled together next to their bikes (not a suspicious formation  _ at all _ in the case anybody passed by, but of course, nobody would pass by) I noticed that the whole team had their faces painted, although Skye had of course opted for a more colorful variant of pink and purple.

 

“Do you want me to paint yours too?” she asked excitedly as soon as we climbed off the bike.

 

“No, thank you.”

 

“It’s only zinc sticks, sun block you know! I have loads of colors…”

 

“I’m fine, thanks.”

 

“You should do it,” Maria’s dark and husky voice interrupted. “For team spirit.”

 

I had exchanged words with the Bunheads new leader maybe once or twice before, and never enough to go into double digits. What those fleeting conversations had taught me however, was that she was not a woman to be argued with.

 

“Technically, Steve isn’t a team member. He’s very keen on pointing that out,” Bucky said and elbowed me in the side, teasing and saving me at the same time.

 

Maria shrugged and put her hands in the pockets of her coat that she was still wearing despite the heat.

 

“This is the plan,” she said and pulled a piece of paper out of the right pocket. “This is what we’re making.”

 

She had made a  _ blueprint _ of the crop circle and I almost whistled. This was no random reprisal, but a meticulously planned vengeance. 

 

Skye was almost jumping up and down with excitement as everyone came together in circle formation to admire Maria’s work. The design was very neat, I must admit, geometric art had never been my forte but this girl knew what she was doing. It might very well be a side effect of growing up here, the Midwestern elementary, middle  _ and _ high school experience. 

 

“We are going to split into teams of two,” Maria announced. “The design is divided into numbered sections, every team will be assigned a couple of numbers. Is everyone clear on what we’re doing?”

 

“I’m not,” I muttered and raised a hand.

 

Maria snapped her head towards Skye.

 

“You were supposed to send him the Wikihow-article,” she said coolly.

 

“You can’t learn how to do a crop circle by reading an article! It’s a practical skill, it’s gotta be learned by doing!”

 

“Some theoretical study beforehand does help,” Maria said and sighed. “You’re going to have to teach him.”

 

She pointed at Bucky who grinned.

 

We were each given a plank with holes drilled into both ends, where a rope had been tied and the gist of crop circle making was to use this contraption to stomp the crops down (In retrospect I have read that Wikihow article and it really was a thorough theoretical description.) 

 

It sure was practical work though, and very time-consuming, and by the time the sections allotted to me and Bucky were properly downtrodden, the sky had almost started to lighten.

 

“So if I have understood correctly, then cornfields are off-limits, haystacks are totally fine and soy fields are open targets as long as they are owned by the Pierce family,” I  stated, standing on a flattened circular pile of ex-soy crops.

 

“Right,” Bucky said and nodded. “Technically, anything owned by the Pierce’s is fine I’d say. But then again, we shouldn’t go overboard. We wouldn’t want to seriously mess up the soy production.”

 

“What with this being America’s heartland and all that.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Bucky put his hands on his hips and took a proud look around at our creation. We would probably never get a full view of the intricate pattern drawn up by Maria, unless the Simonville Gazette choose to cover it with aerial shots and I doubted that their budget allowed for that sort of thing. Still, this patch alone that Bucky and I had been ordered to flatten had turned out pretty neat on its own. It was hard to tell how big the whole area was, but spaced out enough for me not to have heard any sounds from the girls for a while now. 

 

I turned towards Bucky and saw that he was stargazing. I followed suit. Light pollution was not an occurrence here. If any place was really deserving of a name like Sparks, which should rightly indicate anything sparkling, it should be a place in which the twinkling stars were actually visible.

 

Bucky dropped down on the ground and laid down on his back, and I covered the short distance over to him and did the same.

 

“I think I prefer this to the last time I was lying down in a field,” I said, trying to keep myself from laughing.

 

“Yeah, me too,” Bucky chuckled. 

 

I heard him move and felt his hand grab mine, so I turned my head to look at him.

 

“Although last time I was lying down on top of you,” he said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

 

Dear reader, the pros of dating a biker gang member: you will become a member by association and get asked to participate in their mind boggling shenanigans, which may sometimes end with black camouflage war paint smeared across your face, on midnight dates stargazing in a crop circle just outside of Simonville, Iowa, population 1,207.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that it's over. <3 Thank you for sticking with my ramblings and silly little fic, and if it has brought you 5% of all the joy it's brought me, well, I call that a success! If you've liked it, or have had any other thoughts or feelings about it, then please don't hesitate in letting me know! Drop a comment here or as always, find me on [tumblr](http://tokyodarjeeling.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The mentioned Wikihow article can be found [here](http://www.wikihow.com/Make-a-Crop-Circle), use it responsibly. ;)
> 
> EDIT: I posted this just before going to bed for a few hours. I got up, and followed the CNN livestream for six hours until Trump was declared president elect. I feel awful and numb, and do think we have mourning to do today. Tomorrow, we will organize and continue to fight. My heart goes out to every single person who do not fit with the racist vision of Trump's America, and with this story in mind, my heart goes out a little bit extra for the queer youth in rural communities. Please contact The Trevor Project or another organisation of your choice, take care of yourself to the best of your ability. There is a world of united LGBTQI people who hold you in our thoughts today and I will try my hardest to support you.


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